Pops

My grandfather used to call me a beatnik

Because I spoke my mind with cluttered long words.

Bitter-tasting coffee stained my tongue.

He said I needed to drink it black like the vagabonds do.

I sit like a child in the dark,

Coughing up cigar smoke and his uttered words:

To contain my life in a backpack,

So I can throw my soul on a train heading east.

He thinks I will fly like Jonathan on my 17th birthday.

I crash into the sand like the seagull,

Gasping for breath.

I remember why Pops enlightens me.