The skin now paper purple on his face
The eyes still flash of blue as when a boy
The old and crooked teeth so yellow hue
The laughter of a man who tasted joy
His days have become small in many ways
The wife, the dog and church now boundary life
And yet the poet heard in turn of phrase
A wit that chops and dices like a knife
The man once firm ideals and passion high
The rebel closer now to cloud and harp
But dotage doesn’t yet confine his mind
So thankful that the faculties kept sharp
A father must have child and I am his
Observer notes what was and what still is


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