Poem for a Grumpy Old Bastard

I was eight years old -

            full of energy and Ritalin.

Oftentimes, I’d run into

            the dusty communal room

in my gran’s retirement home,

            tearing about and terrorising

all the old folks.

            He’d always be sat there,

festering away on that bitter throne.

One time I was inspecting

the cuckoo clock and he’d told me

                        to fuck off and die -

to which I’d told him that he 

            definitely would before me 

and to my surprise

            he’d burst into hysterics.

When I’d bound in there after that,

he’d stop to tell me about the world, 

            the true nature of people 

and how nothing matters in the end 

and of course he’d still hated me,

he’d just hated me less.

Several months after that, he’d died -

none of those old timers cared

and that room got a lot more boring.

     He was a grumpy old bastard,

but a misunderstood one at that,

who left no one and little behind

and years on I write this poem for him -

even if he’d probably 

     fucking hated poetry too.

Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. Gwil lives in his hometown of Bristol England, but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His poems have recently been featured in Glove Magazine, Black Flowers Online, Daily Drunk Mag, Expat Press, Blue Pepper and now here. He has twice been nominated for The Best of The Net and once for The Pushcart Prize. His ninth chapbook of poetry will be published by Holy & Intoxicated Publications in 2022.