Stained

His years wore wrinkled ways,
At first his canvas white, then black and char-coaled grey
"Baking soda, we used it in war to make our smile clean," he'd say. "But no matter how hard we scrubbed, our teeth were always stained."
He laughed the memory away, and cleared his throat and sighed. "It may not mean much to you, but I want to thank you for your time, it really made my day."
I gleamed and said "It's fine, glad to make you smile."
The line stayed quiet for a bit too long,
I wondered and said "Hello?"
He cleared his throat and sniffed, his voice then broke, "I'm an old man with nothing left, my wife has shaken hands with death. I spend my days painting over black and grey. Every night I close my eyes, begging God to take me. Every sunrise I wake and scream, in shock my teeth are stained, and my canvas black remains."
Again a quiet tone, a breathless break away. Worried the man croaks, "You there?"
I wiped my eyes and choked, "Of course! I'm so glad you are ok."
He chuckled through his smile and said " You know I decided to ride my bike. To stay in shape of course, but also because of you I have a reason to hope."
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, "Sir, I'll keep you in my prayers."
He coughed and took a breath "God just answered mine. I'll ride my bike and sing. I'll gladly look in the mirror and smile, happy my teeth are stained!"