My father hated his father.
Aged sixteen he ran away from home.
Joined the army on a nine-year contract.A few months later, my grandfather found him,
miserably ill in a military hospital.Dad begged:
“Take me home.”The reply?
“You’ve made your bed. Lie in it.”Then the War.
The above is from my on-going collection of fifty-word poems 50/50ish. From the section “Before Memory: Family Stories”. See also this accompanying post.