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like a sparkle in the eye with reflections of the fireplace,
the cracks of his wrinkled skin with greying beard on his face,
his hands busy building the model as a hobby to be fun,
smelling the glue and fresh plastics until the rising of the sun,
the roosters call as he looks around wondering why,
blinking wildly with haziness in the head of eyes so dry,
standing up then looking down at the plane he makes,
sitting all night he cracks his back that continually aches,
the creation completed for his grandson still sleeping in,
he puts the model at the bedside table with a huge grin,
the child wakes at the alarm going off next to the bed,
with the plane sitting next to it as he slowly turns his head,
raising his hand then slamming it down hard on the plane,
stabbed in with the propeller causing him a lot of pain,
the grandfathers all night effort destroyed in a second with that boy,
he pulls it out throwing it away for it was still a memorable toy.