Cactus

He chews the ends of his pipe stem like
corn-on-the-cob, scraping away each layer
of almost rotten wood with tobacco
stained teeth, and little drops of spit
drip from the pipe and flow down
his grizzly white and grey beard that clings
to his sea-toughened face like burrs
to cotton sweaters.

He used to tell me stories about
the Coast Guard and his days
as a tugboat captain. And once
chased a kid with an unforgiving
stick, a solicitor for Greenpeace, because
"they're the reason the Coast Guard left Newport."

And made me watch old war movies
with him. And kicked in the
television because "they were too soft
on Himler," and called me a
"little prick"

because I had never been
to battle and I had no scars.
Still I went everyday because
he had known my grandfather from the war
and his wife was dead. And one day I walked in early
and saw him crying.