He knew he was crotchety.

He’d forgotten how to love.

His cane held him upright and

allowed him to kick at stones

along the winding path home.

He wanted for nothing but

stones to kick and maybe a

bone to pick once he arrived.

Being crotchety was safe.

He knew it and they knew it,

and at night after supper

he could be found down

in his old soldier’s fox hole.