Aftertaste

Aftertaste 

by Ricky Mave

The old man had a stroke,
Nothing to fret over—
These things happen them old chaps.
But he cries.

I lean against the wall and watch
As grandpa leaks a facet of salt and snot
Onto his bib.
"Rob...Rob..." he murmers.
"I'm here, dad." Ray consoles him.
And then the old man weeps from raisin wrinkled eyes,
Yelps like a bachelor,
Howls like a widower,
Weeping like the day he was born.
No one understands why.
He doesn't even know the man at his side,
Nor does he know anything of
How heavy his hand had been—
Why he never needed a belt.
But Ray does and maybe that's why he cries;
Guilt still stings after memory dies,
And now it's too late to change it.