What if

WHAT IF I WROTE A POEM

About being seventy-seven

and trying not

to speculate how long I’ve got left

and I loved a woman

who was far away in another city

and it was snowing and cold

and the wind found places

around the window frames

to sneak in and trouble me

and my memory hurt

from the bad things I’d done

and those little lit places in my cells

where I’d done good

were not enough to keep me warm

and my buck up

motor wasn’t working

and prayer and meditation

just taught me I was present

with all this and one Buddhist said

our karma is manure

to grow flowers in but right now

it just stinks like an old hog

and not only that some idiot

will try to give me advice

if I publish this poem

so I won’t bother, how about that?