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Opa (#4)
Bruised
Leftover
Crumbled
Tinted
Wrinkled

Pace set to extra slow
Aging beyond
Fill him with formaldehyde

He lost his tongue,
  He lost his mind.
He lost his heart,
  He lost his wife.

Your Quaker Oats
  Your bayonet
Your bushy eyebrows
  Your lost causes

Burnt
Shot
Witnessed
Tailored
Flaking

Beats set ten more
Falling to the street
Find him one borough north

He lost his son,
  He lost his remote.
He lost his time,
  He lost himself.

Your giving grace
  Your slicing of hallah bread
Your sketching of corners
  Your newborn smile

Not yet dead
Rolled over
Pissed on
Amnesia
Loved

Time standing still
Tick Tock
When will you join her?

He lost his hope,
  He lost his mother.
He lost his dignity,
  He lost his life.

Your thumb twiddling
  Your eggs of February
Your constant prayer
  Your daily humor

Almost gone,
Just not yet 
	You are my Opa
	I feel like we've just met.

 2005 David Greg Harth
05.11.07.23:36:40@296NYC