Seventy-one: It’s OK, Pappou.

I’m eye-balling a bee when I see her,
the zaftig also known as his third official woman.

My grandfather is living in sin with this little round person.
They wear gold rings that don’t belong to each other.
As an octogenerian, I don’t know if he will marry again.

Especially when he’s still married to another bitch.

This one is in her seventies.
He always did like them younger.
I think that’s all I know about him.
That he’s a cheater.
And that he plays the  mandolin.

Supposedly I have a quarter of his genes
but  I haven’t seen any evidence to suggest this yet.
All I have to play after half a decade of piano lessons is
Mary had a little lamb. I’m Mary dressing up as a lamb.
Mary never cheated. She just hides from her stalking sheep.
I never cheated. That one time, we were on a break.
And I was seventeen. My grandfather is not seventeen.

He’s just the first man I stopped relying on.

twenty-five years after my birth,
twenty-five years after he left my grandmother,
I forgive him.

I forgive him for leaving my grandmother,
lonely and senile,
rocking herself between the long hours of her echoing life.
I forgive him for being irresponsible with our birthrights,
for leaving us with the knowledge of where we came from
but nothing to show for it.
I even forgive him for being a stranger instead of my grandfather.

It’s hard to be mad when you realise you’re looking at an old man,
still a fool with his liver-spotted skin dressed in rough brown,
and bearing a pot of roses, fifties pink, to endear him to us,
without any intentions of changing.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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