Abuelo

Never did he say a word or smile.
From the bottom of the hill I saw him,
He sat on the steps that lead to the top,
His hair, grey as the moon's light but dirty.
He sat there, sat there with a cane in hand
And a crumpled brown paper bag by him.
His hands that peeked out of his blue blazer,
Darkened by the sun and aged with time, had
A wrinkle for every year of his life.
Every year of his life that he wasted
On his friends José Cuervo and Patron.
A good man when not drinking, they told me.
I never saw him any other way,
Always at the top of the hill he sat
And today was not any different.
I walked up the steps, counted them each, then
I stared at him as he looked down the hill
And I whispered Hola, Abuelo.