The Captain’s Habit
Ignores the nipping of
his late wife’s twin Pomeranians,
brushes their concerns away with two
slides of his pedal steel guitar,
the one in his basement-turned-tiki-bar,
for use at informal luaus with
tough-skinned car derby women,
when the weather suits his
arthritis and the price
his thin wallet.
Ignores the whines of
his “lady friend,” who,
conveniently, inconveniently,
lives in his dead pal’s house next door,
brushes her concerns away with two
strokes of the bristles, dipped
deep in tempura the color of sky,
to recall the ships of his younger days,
when wives lasted longer than pitch,
strong and bitter.
In the Final Hours
When they come, I will jump out the window,
Your soft head in the crook of my elbow,
The shotgun on my back.
We’ll run to the tree house.
I’ve prepared a bed for you.
I’ve learned how to play La La Loo on the recorder,
for when we run out of batteries.
You’ll sleep through this, you always do.
I’ll prime the bullets softly among the shivering leaves,
Sit still as death, careful not to shake the crisp ones,
Aim for the head, so as to preserve ours.
Give you a future.
