Grandpa

you talk of breakaway stallions 
with hooves poised to strike teeth, 
years on long lean roads past Las Vegas 
selling church pews down the valley. 
Why couldn’t you hold a few of those pews 
for your own stiff and holy battering. 
You gave them all away and sprawled 
through generations weary of bruises 
your too-far reaching tires tracked. 
Oh, you rolled far and built rest stops 
rather than homes, dropping off travelers 
on the way. 

You were strong then. 
Now your ankles swell when you walk 
and you carry big, false white teeth.