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Date Posted: 16:05:09 02/12/02 Tue
Author: Porthos
Subject: Patriarch

Patriarch

“Now open it up”
The words come slow
As my grandfather catches
His breath between
Syllables.
His chrome chariot
Is parked in front
Of the countertop.
I lift open the George
Foreman grill, like a heart
Surgeon prying open
A man’s ribcage, and he
Removes the sizzling
Slabs of meat:
Seared and mutilated
Organs.
“Can you do me a favor
And fetch my wineglass…
Give me some white”
His tired eyes
Meet mine and
I say
“Sure.”
I retrieve the desired
Goblet and top
It off.
He thanks me
And drinks
His poison
Without thought
Of the fragile drum
Struggling to keep time
Inside his chest.
He sets his chalice down with
The same coarse hands that once
Grasped a rusty shovel
While we widened his driveway.
“Wheel me out
To the table”
His voice crackling
Like an old radio show.
We pass the framed
Article, his trophy case.
A silver fence
Housing the issue
Of Time magazine
Where his shots
Were published.
Grandpa had been
The only photographer
On the far side of the river,
The only one to freeze
Perfect images of the
Boiling froth swallowing
Up the schooner at
The base of the dam.
He labors into his chair
And sits. His cheeks
Flee each other
Forming a smile;
Jowls hang
From his face like
Tapestries in a
Crumbling castle.
His gray hair is grown
Long on one side
And draped over
The top of his smooth head:
A tattered flag writhing
On the wind.
A once sturdy structure
He now wavers in the
Winter gales.
My body constricts,
My heart beats frantic
As he teeters and
Begins to
Fall.

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