in his
pressure knit socks
above his knees,
sitting in the big chair,
by the window,
sipping
tea.
setting his book on
world war two
down to greet me,
his side having lost.
a new bruise
is bandaged on his face
from the latest fall,
his cap is on
as if he might go fishing,
or sailing today,
a shawl
around his boney
shoulders.
sunglasses to shade
those shifting eyes.
he smiles and nods
with a row
of broken teeth, it's
been a hard life.
but he's still able to get
up and pour you a gin
and tonic,
cut you a slice of cheese
to eat.
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