He lets out a whine for his rusting life –
it is deep, cold, and full of strife.
His gray hairs are bristly,
snaggly with crunch.
No angel dressed in white to invite him to brunch.
There are no gold locks that fall to her waist,
no one begs on their knees, “Don’t go with such haste.”
Your spine gives a shiver,
slicing a nerve.
What does he do? His thoughts are unheard.
He smells like old timber, crocheting warm sweaters,
a rich, frosty snow, and old, unsent letters.
He beckons her over, whispers to me “Mira,”
sighs with resolve, and murmurs “la vida.”