Breathing

Books sitting on shelves
like columns of soldiers,
the old man in his cushioned chair
staring out the window.
The air thickens with lingering cigar smoke
while the tobacco burns away
between his yellow fingertips.
There's nothing like a good cigar
or the first woman you ball
he once told his grandson,
too young to understand.
The boy hasn't been around, he thinks,
not remembering it's been four years.
Light from the TV that's never turned off
flickers in the evening's approaching shadows
as a young woman reveals her pain
in the silence of the muted sound.
His eyes close and sleep shrouds him.
Upstairs, the neighbor's child cries.
A muffled smack.
He turns the TV sound up.
The smell of machine oil,
a greeting from the trucks, blows through the window.
The ranks of the books are broken.
as he begins to re-read about D-Day.
But first the TV amplifies
over the din the darkness brings.
And outside, when like a jungle cat
the city's eyes open and its grin widens,
we hit the beaches in France.

previously published in Road of Shadows