I know I've written this same poem like fifty times now, but it gets more and more appropriate the older I get. At least I'll never run out of inspiration. Also, FictionPress won't let me update this with the actual formatting. In every stanza, after the first line, the lines get more and more indented as they descend. Just imagine it like that, okay? Okay.


"Grandpa died again tonight,"
I sighed
for my own benefit
in a crowded room,

while ladies
who grew into girls
washed dishes
in a sink
stained with salty bubbles,

while men
who spoke at their mothers
decided tonight
was the time for walls to crumble.

The children
who will grow into prophets
or into jackets
watch halfheartedly

and Grandpa
in Hell
or a picture frame
has died again.