Haiku for Uncle Herb

Twilight.  His Old Spice
aura has long since deferred
to scotch and Pall Malls.

His bare skull and limp
jowls are trumped by the feline
glitter in his eyes.

Planted in his chair,
he clears his throat and glowers
at his wheezing friend.

While Frank deals the cards
and grimly sips his decaf,
Herb snorts and mutters.

He squints at his hand.
Inhales, imbibes.  Decides to
let Frank win this one.

Jean Kreiling

If you have any comments on this poem, Jean Kreiling  would be pleased to hear from you.