Uncle Chad

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