The grandpa

The grandpa
I’ll tell you a bit of my grandpa.
I think he’s a thousand years old.
He must keep his hands in the freezer;
I’ve never felt ice cubes that cold.

The hair growing off of his earlobes
is more than the hair on his head.
His eyes are all baggy and bloodshot.
His nose is the same shade of red.

His voice is like rickety floorboards.
It crackles and groans when he speaks.
Whenever he bends down to hug me
it sounds like his skeleton creaks.

He says that his memory is failing.
He thinks that he’s losing his mind.
He’s always misplacing his glasses;
without them he’s legally blind.

My mom says his hearing is normal.
I kind of believe her, but then
whenever I tell him “I love you,”
he asks me to say it again.

 
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