Uncle by Michael A. Griffith

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Uncle 

.

Arms tired, hands

like useless crane shovels

legs strong but stiff as

tree trunks. Your shoulders

.

have held others up, as

the cane you’d just as soon leave

at the Elks’ hall after bingo

supports you now.

.

Now you sit fiddling with

glasses three years too old,

eyes awash, blinking, reading about a man

who you voted for but wouldn’t now.

.

Now a car passes, its music thump-

ing like the metal press at the foundry where

you gave your best years,

your best blood.

.

Blood in your hanky, your

coughing, your dreams. You

tell no one. It is your job now to hide

such things, to protect

.

your family, your friends, the

few who are still here, who

still might worry, might wonder.

Tired, how tired too soon.

.

Too soon to go to bed, Jeopardy

isn’t half-over yet, and your son might

yet call. But you start to doze after the first

lightning round, the first can, the first

.

star appears low on the horizon.

Cloudy later on, a drizzle falls,

your son doesn’t call. You wake, neck

sore, chest heavy. Sluggish, down

.

the hall you get into bed, then lie

there, staring into the dark, sounds

of the bingo games and metal press

ringing through your head.

.

Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry as he recovered from a disability-causing injury. His poems, essays, and articles have appeared in many print and online publications and anthologies. He resides and teaches near Princeton, NJ.

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