Grandfather Is Cold

The paddles of the prickly pear are feet.
The toes of the dead point to heaven. No

old woman wove his red serape. No
old wife, wrinkled as his toes, calls him sweet.

Death is a black dog, a cold cigarette.
Death's long shadow leans against the wall. When

will it come creeping up behind him? When
will it wrap bony hands around his throat?