Grandpa Kuhl

November 8, 2017
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He was a fighter his entire life

Even God respected him


As a radio gunner in WWII,

bomb shrapnel obliterated the screeching metal floor

of the plane, where his legs had been seconds before.


As a contruction worker,

he carried tools in the front of a semi

when he hit a curve and drove down the sky

he walked away with, perhaps, a bruise


Purple and blue like the jellybeans in his pockets,

treats for the children who asked

We danced to the only song he could play,

piano notes echoing through the first

fifteen years of our lives.


Still after his soul rose lile smoke to the heavens,

His broad frame stands like an oak in a storm

his smile like the scent of pastries on a cool winter's street.

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