This is an edit of a previous improv:
Grandpa chewed and swished
gray squirrel slowly in
a toothless mouth, sneaking
a mouthful of cheap gin and leaning
against the side of his acid-green Ranger
with a willow switch on the dash
and the dogeared Bible in the glovebox, and I saw
his lips crackle open like thin, boring
paper around a gift: the argyle socks buried
silently under pine leaves.
He was late that year, and we shut out
winter sun with Venetian blinds.
He was driven batshit crazy
by kids and BGH and welding
asbestos, wedding his best toes
to rough boots.
Every lunch, he read Outdoor Life
to learn intimately the glint of dogs' teeth on
Muscovy wings, the depth of walleyes,
the melancholy of fading fawn spots. I would like to fish
for words that rhyme with perch, shoot
pool or photos or for the moon, cast
a reel into the algaed water and pull out
the bass wriggling into a treble clef.
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