u/Creepy-Talk-5579

And my grandpa was a runner,

Back when he had a free summer.

He ran on concrete, on dirt, on grass,

On fumes, with grit teeth, out of gas.

He said it was the easiest way.

Told me, ‘You’re still young, run away.

Tears flyin’ from your face—

That’s good!

Now, don’t let up the pace.’

Then he stopped talking,

Said nothing ’bout walking—

On his busted knees—

Said nothing ’bout the summer

That he had free.

Now my grandpa is a crawler,

And his tears drop on his collar,

All seasons of the year.

He forgets I’m here.