he is loudest at yard sales
a single coin becomes
a battlefield for pride
he will hold a weathered book
like it is gold
ask the vendor
if this treasure
is worth their offer
his shoulders rise
his voice clips words into half sentences
his eyes scan for weakness
as though the seller
might crumble first
i want to tell him
uncle the war is over
the world does not spin
on rusty dimes and quarters
but instead i watch
the dance unfold
he walks away triumphant
with fifty cents still in hand—
unspent grief tucked tightly
into his pockets