Yellow Swim Trunks in the Lime-Green Grass
Sometimes he smokes in the kiddie pool,
an ashtray to the side of it.
My grandfather soaks.
His skin, loosening on his aging bones
as his muscles diminish, recede—
his skin kills him.
He scratches till he bleeds
outside, smokes till
he bleeds inside too,
ridding the world of himself
bit by bit.
He wears nothing.
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