He told me he liked to tell stories and
Create things,
All while I sat at his feet,
Watching grey ashes from his Agio cigar
Land on his worn, steel-toed boots.
Condensation left a permanent ring around the handmade side table,
Having dripped off his always-present glass of Scotch.
'I used to enjoy olives, too,'
He had said,
Plucking two or three of them out of his drink.
He spoke that way,
Out of turn and in riddles.
Mother said he came back from Vietnam talking like that.
He also brought with him a scowl and limp in his left leg,
And on occasion he would lose feeling in that foot.
'I used to enjoy creating things,'
He always said,
As if those few words could bring back the past.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
He told me he liked to tell stories and
Create things,
All while I sat at his feet,
Watching grey ashes from his Agio cigar
Land on his worn, steel-toed boots.
Condensation left a permanent ring around the handmade side table,
Having dripped off his always-present glass of Scotch.
'I used to enjoy olives, too,'
He had said,
Plucking two or three of them out of his drink.
He spoke that way,
Out of turn and in riddles.
Mother said he came back from Vietnam talking like that.
He also brought with him a scowl and limp in his left leg,
And on occasion he would lose feeling in that foot.
'I used to enjoy creating things,'
He always said,
As if those few words could bring back the past.
Request permission to use this poem