Grampa Chic

Grampa Chic

Recently, the crisis of middle age was made real:

I’ve moved from DILF to GILF,

Though neither, really, from a technical stance.

If that girl at that age had a son, at that age,

Who had a kid now, it could be

That I’d be grandfather, not just daddy.

When I first met my grampa, he was this age,

Give or take, or just shortly past,

Strong and sturdy and assured: providing.

Hard working, still, a builder and war hero,

He saved America and the world,

Then he saved pennies like they were gold.

And heir am I to this splendid specimen, 

And not even worthy of his shadow,

Yet pretending I’m striving: masquerading.

I clothe myself in his attire, expecting osmosis

Through mid-life designer impostering:

Style he wore without meaning to.

Pit-stained Vee neck tees:

Fruit of the Loom  to Polo.

Silver-ish engraved dog tags:

Navy issue to Tiffany.

Elastic cotton waistbands:

Homemade to LaCoste.

Classic Mickey watch:

Timex to Apple.

Handkerchiefs:

Paisley to pocket squares.

If there’s an end in sight, or beyond, I see it.

Just beyond the hard work of life,

Where sacrifice meets “just enough.”

Now excess tempers invincibility with the 

Inevitability of humanity. Charged with

Giving more than taking: with legacy.

The joy now is in the fresh wide-eyes 

Of the uncynical and unburnished souls

From the next generation as they move:

Through life’s challenges,

The gauntlet we leave them,

Through life’s victories,

The charters we leave them,

Through loves and heartbreaks,

The bliss and lies we leave them,

Through deficits and excesses,

The institutions we leave them,

Through life’s ILFnesses

        DILF to GILF and beyond.