His varicose       watershed mopped

            up the weed and clover      killer, the fertilizer

grew him a foot      at least, the river rose

            a handful of gams.       Here where men were

giant and dead,       rheumatisms of cypress

            knees. Some buckle.       Some unbuckle.

The mussels did tsk tsk      through their beards.

​

Tonight might be the night.      Orange drags through

            this memory:       the thrill.

That and that       his past is a smoke

            jettied both ways, age-old       decisions staged

between his lips just lit.       His hand dips      

            to pet the razor       clams mouthing the camp,      

clapping back at       his life well done, though slow      

            cooked at a steady ninety-eight

degrees for a century       and some change.

​

Can't we the crock-potted       be thankful for the church

            of cells? Without their prayer       of death, we might live

forever.       Imagine,       oh the nerve, never       ending.