Killing Grandpa (3)

Something to crow about, and
everyone must wear a crown,
a corona for the glowing Sun,
a trademark for a dear beer
a crown for an evil crow.

The crow is
a family symbol
that plays with fate
stealing shiny objects
like mystery guns, and
who’s to say they’re not toys

Dad dealt in guns
had no regrets about
the crow of things. Omens.

No natural death, and
an inheritance for me.

For Corvidae
as the crow appears in desperate flight
this appears a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo corvid

yea true, my father died at 72 —
a cancer the grim blamed on him
and I at 71 demeaned by life
in Corona, New York

I’ve learned Dad’s business
with regret, but
my son’s an accountant.

But I’m obsolete now
with bio-weapons on the horizon

Years ago
might say I was like a foamy
beer near Flushing Meadows
of World’s Fair fame, 1964, though Dad
on Malta had his black market museum:
illegal guns in the ancient Hypogeum,
hiding missiles for dismissal of war guilt.

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
the Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some cleanly new
legitimate business for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
but for fun I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels

it was exciting for them
to play in my tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder,
hear the machine guns, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them well:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billions of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved me, Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known I
laundered money and
sold weapons to clandestine
really funny-named groups

Early they heard fairy tales galore
they were to believe as required
and as they were told about me:
he didn’t like public dirt’s roar
so he washed donor money; yet
he gave their poor children toy guns
to play with, unrestricted for causes

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they inferred that by consultations
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered
for his very own sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.

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