five-thirty a.m. on the old, yellowed bedside alarm.

Grandfather swings scrawny legs over the side of his bed

and slips bare feet into his fur-lined moccasin slippers.

Joints crack as he steps up to his banged-up dresser

which proudly holds out his thick grey-rimmed spectacles.

Grandfather stares with an expression of avoidance

into the tainted dresser mirror.

His eyes have been worn by age.

Chocolate corduroys hang wrinkled at the cuffs.

He had rolled them up and gone wading

at the ocean's edge late last night.

Old cat Spirit rolls at his feet,

a coat of dust matting his fur.

The two veterans walk together to the kitchen,

share breakfast before a long day of mortality.