Walking through the door,
The smell of cigarette smoke surrounds me.
To the left sits Poppa's medals,
Awarded for being one of the best.
I can remember all the stories he has told,
Repeated many times.
Stories of his time in the force,
Of a troublemaker,
Always breaking the rules.
I walk under the archway to the dining room,
Where he sits,
Concentrating heavily.
The table in front of him is covered in stamps,
Ready to be sorted into folders.
He smiles and greets me the same as always,
"Hello, hello, hello."
Lines and wrinkles on his face are carved like stone,
Skin covered in battle scars.
He's been around for nearly seven decades,
Now is slowly withering away.
His feet are numb,
Most teeth are gone
And hair turned grey years ago.
But don't be misled.
Laughter surrounds him,
A smile always plastered on his face.
Fell in love, married, became a father and grandfather.
He fought for what he believed in,
Fought for our country,
Locked up some of the worlds most dangerous criminals.
I talk to him and am filled with pride,
He's done so much,
But expects so little.
On face value he seems cocky, arrogant.
And he probably is in a way...
But, believe me, he has a heart of pure gold.
