The Yawn Spinner

my grandfather sat by the fire,  

hands greasy with years and gin.  

his lips parted, slow as decay,  

and the yawn spun into space,  

wrapping itself into the room,  

a lazy beast curling its tail.  

each drunken breath hummed a hymn,  

beer cans singing his baritone praise.  

when he was sober, he'd thread  

silence through his teeth instead.  

but drunk, his mouth poured rivers,  

sluggish oceans, swallowing the quiet.  

he'd blink like a sluggish thief,  

stealing time from the nighttime air.  

his twirling yawns became legends,  

an art lost to the sober world.