It’s nothing remarkable

like him if truth be told

nondescriptly uniform

brown leather

brass locks

just a briefcase

my Grandfather’s

battered and aged with time

like him

scarred and ruptured surfaces

like his skin

peeling away from seams

like his mind.

just a briefcase

locked with a combination

six numbers,

that spin and twirl in gold

six numbers,
 that once

I read in blue as he

dozed, unaware of me pulling up his sleeve


six faded numbers

etched into his skin.


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