no words

 
My uncle is telling me again
Neil Young was a genius

his empty rocks glass glinting
in the late summer air

smoke and skylight giving way
to the darkening season.

His Camel smolders by the fire pit,
the boombox mewling 70’s rock

and I have no words
but know not to look in his eyes

when he pauses to tap his watch,
a gift from my drunk grandfather

he says, a vintage Calatrava
which means nothing to me.

He lumps up from his chair
to piss in the bushes, passing

his palm through my hair,
a kindness I do not understand.

He returns for a moment, sits
to gather himself for bed, tells me

the bourbon hurts his heart
but it is what it is he whispers

by the dying firelight
better to burn out than to fade away.