He is on the floor in the bedroom, crying after
realizing his father lost his father years ago.
Bringing in new years like groceries from the car.
Leaving them out on the counter too long.
Not real until the plastic they came in are gone.
Two thousand and seventeen in brown paper bags
on the stove.

He is spilling four shots of moonshine at one time
and letting strangers in cigar shops
offend him in the name of Christ.

Hearing story’s full weight and his knees
are unbuckling. He is standing up
to grandfather fears and millennial tears
and new God damned years.

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