Picture of My Grandparents
I watched her as she watched him;
Embraced in a lock of two long lovers’ limbs.
My grandmother holding my grandfather’s hand,
As each breath of his slip as if they were drops of sand.
In a dial whose demand is but spent supply of his time,
Stolen by the thief who is free to perform a perpetual crime.
For the Reaper grins with grim dimples in such imputative avarice,
Unfettered by false claims of such fellows as Lazarus.
And so I watch with horror as the most brilliant man I know,
Slips away from the man I call my very own Poppy Joe.
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