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
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,