Old Henry Vega**

Countless cantankerous, argumentative old men perennially dwell in a fog of bitterness and regret, endlessly replaying the battles of yesteryear—both on the battlefield and within the confines of their memories.

In stark contrast, Buster the dog lies sprawled comfortably on a threadbare rug, a rusty fishing rod resting in the corner like a forgotten relic. With a soft, playful flick of his ears and a wag of his tail, Buster radiates an innocence that belies the weariness of his master, who remains immobile in his rickety chair, trapped in a world of unyielding stillness. As Buster yearns for the thrill of the outside, his bright, eager eyes search for any sign of movement, desperately hoping for a romp in the sun.

Henry, burdened with creaking joints and the relentless pangs of arthritis, suffers through each day with a grimace etched on his lined face, his varicose veins becoming increasingly pronounced like the grotesque branches of a gnarled tree. In a futile attempt to reclaim his vitality, he dabbles in acupuncture, homeopathy, and osteopathy, but these remedies offer little more than a fleeting escape from his discomfort. Each morning, he reluctantly swallows an overwhelming handful of twenty antacid pills, a grim reminder of his deteriorating health and the number of days left in him.

As he stares into the distance, lost in thoughts of his fading youth, one can’t help but wonder who will inherit the remnants of his will. What would Grandma think of old Henry Vega now, as he morphs into the somber Messiah of misery, a figure encased in sorrow, overshadowed by the weight of his unfulfilled dreams?

Eavesdropping**
"A good man is hard to find," my Nana used to say. I remember the day she said it, tears in her eyes as she carefully put money into an envelope for church on a Sunday morning. Earlier that day, she had been yelling at my granddad for what felt like hours. She was really upset with him, and I later discovered that my hero, my grandpa, was having an affair with a woman named Estelline Beckley.
“Ellie, you’re the only woman for me,” my granddad insisted. But Nana didn’t believe him and shut the door in his face. I was scared and confused by all the fighting and, in a moment of panic, I crawled under the table and prayed for the shouting to stop.
For weeks, all Nana did was pray, while my granddad busied himself in the kitchen—burning her cookware and making endless pots of coffee. Nana would often complain to the neighbors about all the “harlots” out there, who she believed had a way of leading good men astray. Even now, I'm puzzled by that expression.
Many years later, I met my mother's half-sister. She looked just like my mother, but she had the same fiery spirit as my granddad. It made me realize that family drama and secrets can follow us through generations, no matter how hard we try to avoid them.

I knew, and you knew, that if I listened to "Unchained Melody," I would have surrendered to yesterday. Without the praises and disappointments, those deep, lingering sighs during moments of passion, our love seemed superficial by comparison. Everything changed the moment I saw his face in my dreams. Suddenly, the sweet sounds of Gheorghe Zamir's "Unchained Melody" called me back; I transformed into the Greek goddess you never recognized. I am free.

My last sigh and our final embrace have settled into dust, leaving only one reminder: your brown jar of honey, untouched, sticky, and outdated, much like your attempts to ****** me. Those negligees you once adored have lost their color, much like yesterday's tears. Everything we once shared feels so unreal, yet I am free—free to love. With each breath and every melody, the intimidation has faded away.

We were everything to each other, and I cherish those nights. However, I have now become the courageous heart of my soul; my fears have lifted, and my smiles are long overdue. A new secret has come to light. Close all doors.

If we must confront death this year, let it not be due to neglect,  
Choking and gasping for breath,  
While the virus attacks our bodies  
Because some failed to follow the rules.  

If we must face our end, let it be from natural causes  
So our names do not become yet another  
Mark on the wall of the unfortunate.  
Oh, deception, take the vaccine!  

If I had cherished them sooner, I would have grieved harder,  
But in truth, they never loved me wholly, so I forget their kisses.  
The touch I could have treasured, the smiles that should have resonated—  
It costs too much to remember  
And too little to spark the love within me.  

To consider them freed by death is painful,  
You may think my coldness was my only way of loving them,  
Yet my warm hands remind me that I am alive.  
You couldn’t see my face as you faced your demise.  
I know they wish they had.

She takes what isn't hers like a burglar.  
Her spouse wed his lover.  
She shut her eyes and once more she lost him to that witch.  
She views him as all-powerful.  
Finally! She wears his ring.  
Now it’s time to hold her tongue and demonstrate to the world that she belongs to Master Shingh.  
What goes around comes back around; karma is a trickster.  
Now it’s casual intimacy with Tess the slutty switch.  
He smiles; she chuckles.  
He slows down; she accelerates.  
He sneezes, she responds with “bless you.”  
She embarked on her new life without hesitation.  
To her, the man is all-powerful.  
She reverses the ground he treads.  
“Yes, master; no, master”—somehow, she manages to love, respect, and obey.  
She takes things like a thief.

There was an older man who was not very liked.
He sits and draws cartoon characters based on his childhood abusers, often saying their names out loud.

He remembers people who have passed away and calls them "*******."
He sometimes feels like crying but holds back, worried he might not like the taste of his tears.  "his tears taste like bitter memories of his parents' criticism:

I haven’t seen my friend Eugene for several weeks. He is in the hospital with pain no one can explain. I miss our chats in the dayroom. I especially loved seeing his face light up when we talked about his Aunt Harriet and Uncle Jack, about her favorite cookies and his fishing trips at the lake with them.

Eugene never had good things to say about his parents. His father told him to ******* to relieve pressure, and his mother told him to run from the bullies. His therapist constantly told him he wouldn’t amount to anything, which made him angry and sad.
He sometimes wishes he had never been born because he feels rejected and looked down upon.

I care about my friend. Sometimes we talk about poetry. I gave him my favorite pen to help him express his feelings.
Poetry is important to me, and I choose to show empathy.
We need to share the stories of those who cannot defend themselves.

That was in 2017; he is long gone, my friend Eugene; however, I will never forget our small talk.  

Continue to rest in peace, my dayroom friend.

I’m back once more.

I spent a long night contemplating which people to remove from my life, the ones who drag me down.
It’s time for a transformation in 2026, a chance to relieve the pressure in my chest.

Like a Maidenform bra that left an imprint,  
What a relief it is to let them go.  
My poem captures both my spoken and silent reflections.  
You may hear my island accent as you go through it.

This past year has been good for me, despite the COVID-19 pandemic that struck in 2020.  
I had a breakdown yesterday, but today I feel somewhat clear-headed. I can truly recognize certain people for who they are: bullies.

I’m refreshing my social circle for my new friends. I haven't shed many tears this year, as I’ve cut back on gambling and focused more on saving, which is positive. Unfortunately, my *** life has plummeted like the temperature in New York to freezing.

My poetry stays authentic and unrefined, yet my smile has grown friendlier towards strangers. I believe I’m starting to appreciate humanity again.

I still have a long journey ahead to rebuild something called trust. I spent another long night reflecting on my strengths and weaknesses.
Growing up, I cherished the biblical tales that resonated with me.
In many instances, the weaker characters are often taken advantage of by the stronger ones; being vulnerable can lead to exploitation, diminishing our self-worth and power. For what? A fleeting moment of intimacy?

Did you notice my tears in my writing? No?
It's not about what you glance at, but rather what you perceive—Thoreau.(quote)

While you gaze up at the ceiling, mulling over your thoughts, the three parts of your brain are functioning together.  
Nevertheless, weaknesses can cause them to drift apart, making me feel as if I have lost touch with myself.

Today is for me to hear my voice. Farewell, my lover; greetings, new friends. Hello, new friends.