ruby.monkey
untitled
I have this dream. A man, solitary, in the fog.
Walking slowly through a softer world.
As I approach, I recognize him.
It’s my grandfather, long dead now,
Last seen, crude and cranky, foul-smelling,
In the nursing home.
He turns toward me, young and vital, curly-haired.
He sees me, a smile crosses his unlined face.
He reaches out his hand, strong, confident,
And says “Pull my finger.”
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