myfatherwhoisgrand

He sits alone.

A frozen frame of a melting flame

His smudged and battered not so white shoes firmly on the floor

Worn out green, black and brown, rusted on his pants which lay awaiting a flood

His socks peak threw this crack, mismatched and stretched and tearing

Once fresh cut grass lie on his wrinkled shirt, which he must have worn to work

He has the look of smell, old forgotten mothballs deep within his Narnia behind his broken bedroom door.

His hands are weak and worn, Beaten and torn.

His fingers are thick, dry, cracking. They do not bend easily; they stay in an unmade fist. Spots like a leaper, healthy like a horse. The rivers are flowing all over their backs, and a desert is resting in the palms.

Upon his wrist he wears a watch that much be turned

His arms appear uncooked; loose and fragile supporting his protruding gut

The upper half seems used and moving in and out, where he is sturdy

His chin skin has begun to droop; it is low on his neck

His ears are grown out lifeless and listened

His hair is white, youthful and thinning; parted and combed like a Presley fan

His lips are thin and tearing, light pink and outspoken

The line design with on his face is deep and dedicated.

Sand is textured over his cover ignored, forgotten, or unseen

He has obviously walked where he has seen

Deep ocean blue, rained over the crashing waves; Dull and pondering

He is a people watcher

His feet begin to shuffle, his knees begin to bend, guts stands alone and his hands grip the air

The lines upon his face begin to curve, he begins to move his feet as his eyes show the sun, his lips separate and smack back together.

He puts his arm around the little girl next to him.

She gives him a kiss and leans her head over his heart.

She picks up his motionless hand and weaves her tiny fingers within.

This man does not sit alone.

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