Grandfathers
I have outlived my life.
My son-in-law opens doors for me,
drags my oxygen tank around
on a metal cart.
I stop at every intersection,
waiting for honks.
I cannot see the lights.
Sometimes,
I go out to dinner,
alone.
“How many tonight, sir?”
“Just one; just me.”
I follow the hostess to a booth,
set for two.
She smiles at me as she removes
one set of silverware,
and I stare
at the empty space
in front of me.
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