Uncle Gray Was Like Me, A Bull In A China Shop Poem by James McLain

He walked in,
boots heavy on cracked tiles,
the kind of man who couldn't sit still
if stillness meant surrender.

Gray didn't talk much—
words weighed him down,
so he left them for whiskey
and women who lit his cigarettes
before he asked.

When he smashed a vase,
he'd grin like the devil's cousin,
say, "Some things are meant to break."
I took it like gospel,
watching him wreck
a jukebox with his fist
because the song was too soft.

In the end, they cremated him quiet—
but I heard the earth crack open,
like it knew it couldn't hold him.