Within the Wilted Tree Line
The light shone through the three picture windows of the living room. He sat in the dated orange chair watching one of his favourite cartoons, Robin Hood. "This is a good show," he said, rewinding it to his favourite part. His pants were hiked up over a belly formed by years of 7 am bacon and hidden-in-the-garage whiskey. His dentures made his demons shine and so did his eyes, vailed in thick-rimmed spectacles. His family played in a world of pretend until a nephew spat out a secret that knocked down the drapes. But his children will always love him. Stiffly up his chair and towards the brown and brick mantle, he stokes the fireplace with a log. Then he hobbles up the stairs with a mole on his ass, free and easy so it appears. Yet, the baggage can be heavy, in the pit of your stomach like a gummed steak. The sparse trees are dying because he doesn't water them when he should. Wind blasts like bullets from the north. The yellow tundra surrounding the banks of the
