I am thinking of my grandfather
and about his frail bones stretching
the rugged old carnival tent of his
skin, loosely living a beleaguered
life lived too long. I watch him,
moving all jilted
and stiff like
old 80's
theme park animatronics,
sipping ceremoniously on
a beer that we all know
he wont finish,
that none of us
are sure he can taste,
and simply struggling to
let slip from
his ragged
bruised old mouth
some charming joke
stained yellow like the past.

I am studying his bruises
watching my young nieces wonder
at his ancient mysteries and
his stiff old frame. I, like the others
in the room, attempt amusement
at his overt attempts to charm
my brother's wife, and I am searching
deep within myself to shoehorn
a belief
that he will be as better tomorrow
as he assures. He is like
a ruined sculpture of antique pride,
putting on airs when he can
barely breathe. I am thinking
about how pathetic a scene this is,
and how it must have taken everything
his tired soul could muster to
even fake it. I am envying his pride
and his willingness to lie
to himself and all of us
so that our hearts
might break in a way befitting
a man too alive to die
without a beer in his hand.