Picture of My Grandparents

I watched her as she watched him; Embraced in a lock of two long lovers’ limbs. My grandmother holding my grandfather’s hand, As each breath of his slip as if they were drops of sand. In a dial whose demand is but spent supply of his time, Stolen by the thief who is free to perform a perpetual crime. For the Reaper grins with grim dimples in such imputative avarice, Unfettered by false claims of such fellows as Lazarus. And so I watch with horror as the most brilliant man I know, Slips away from the man I call my very own Poppy Joe.