Finding The Words

A draw of a cigarette.
The smell of alcohol on his breath.
Face and hands of leather.
Laughter, even in the face of death.

Immortality now in question.
He drags, from his shirt pocket, another smoke.
Sips another sip. Smiles that old smile.
"Cancer," he says, "as if it were a joke."

"Never thought I'd live to see it.
"All the things that almost killed me,
"and its not even in my lungs.
"But, its not as bad as I thought it'd be."

"I know I wont see the year's end."
He smiles and drags another puff.
"Treatment might help," he says.
His face reads well, the old man is tough.

"I love you grandson."
With those words, I wake.
He's been gone many years.
I've always felt it a mistake.

"Take the phone. I can't hear him!"
The last words I ever heard him say.
I should've gone to see him.
I live with that every day.

Regret was not in his vocabulary.
He never allowed the bad memories to torment.
I strive to be that strong.
In his memory, I embrace every moment.

But once in a blue moon.
My mind allows me to see him and right the wrong.
Merely a fantastic dream,
almost makes up for the tears in a song.

The radio plays, I find it comforting.
He always said to allow myself a cry.
I do, I allow the tears to converse.
As if to say, "I love you old man, goodbye."