the old man was living in
hell
Or so he said
Viewed from afar
it looked like his problem was
having to live life in
a wheelchair
But viewed from up
close it became clear that
his problem was having
to live around other people,
around his family
The only thing they were good
for was to move his
writing table around the yard
as the shade shifted
He wrote all day
on an old typewriter
Stubborn old dog. He poured beer
on a laptop
his grandson gifted him
for his seventy-fourth birthday
Said he doesn’t need such plastic
crap tools to write
Though by the end of each
writing session he’d crumple
the paper and throw it
in the trashcan under the table
“He isn’t writing for humans
any longer,” the neighbors said
when they observed his habit
over the fence.
“Humans rejected and mocked his
writing for all his life. It’s
the gods he’s writing
for now.”
And just like a child writing letters
to Santa Claus
and having them vanish overnight,
so were his crumbled
papers taken away from the
dumpster overnight
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