He sat at his desk
while I sat at the edge of his bed
while he dictated the story of his life
in the rodeo.
My mother left me there
alone
with this hundred year-old
rock biter;
to be inspired by the gait
of his dustbowl legacy
or something.
She didn’t once note
or amble the risk
that he may have had
a propensity to saddle-swank
& John Wayne Gacy—
to either lasso
or rope trick.
He had this glass eye
that shimmered
a supernatural green,
I did not pay attention
to anything but that
and the beacon slit of light
coming from the door ajar.
After what seemed
like staring into a microwave,
how radiation confiscates
the ethereal dial,
I finally spoke up with interest
when I realized that
the beginning of his story
took place in 1912.
Wait, I said.
Were you on the Titanic?
There was a brief silence
followed by a long sigh.
His answer, was of course,
No.
