sitting on the front step like back in Brockton
fifteen years ago the house looked different then
both grandfathers were alive
they knew what we were up against
the poet might not have a style
maybe random regular people bull shit
every day worker bull shit
both grandfathers strong fighters until the bitter end
as if the end of life could be anything but bitter
the poet might not always find the positive thoughts
somehow pushing through stronger for that determination
sitting front step in a cloud warm for the middle of November
they say it’s a rainy month and the poet soaks
it all in like a thought sponge tired of the grind
both grandfathers stressed how tiring it would get
no matter how hard you work
you will always be tired still they enjoyed
every minute they could…
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