swivel chair nights

grandfather is slumped

on an old swivel chair, it’s

once porcelain texture is

now streaked in yellowing

bumps; plastic reeking of

burnt rubber; sour and

rancid. this chair, is his

comfort; as his head tilts

towards the right, his calve

crossed over his slim thigh –

slippers dangle from his feet; shoes

have never fit him well enough.

his fingers fondle beads

of prayer, i know he is awake

from watching his fingers

guide him; faithfully

through eternal

petitions.

 

 

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