The streets are clear,
Gramps admits,
but the intersections
are a problem.
The intersections
of his knees and hips
scream about the years
they've had to tote
the silo of his torso.
His joyful pastor
every Sunday screams,
'The End is Near! '
and Gramps agrees
although he prays
a diet might delay it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem