He bought a
Cadillac, an RV,
shiny brass figurines with
granddad’s estate.
We picked him up at local
diners. He smoked till the day
he died. He slowly suffocated
on all the years of what he
was addicted to, war, family,
or whatever he quietly hid away
as he gazed out the back kitchen
window late at night. I miss
him. It’s fall, when the trees
are colorful, but only for
awhile.
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