the old man in his compression socks.
his black
beret tilted on
his head,
his aviator sunglasses
snug around his ears.
the television is on
but he's busy
with a Rubik's cube.
make yourself a drink, he says.
so i do,
then sit across from him.
are you good?
he asks.
everything okay?
i know my daughter is a strange
one to say the least
and is on
a fast road to hell,
but hang in there. it'll end
soon. try not to worry.
be well.
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