Weekend in the Garden of my Sixties

Two days behind a roto-tiller panting like a spent mutt
you get to meditating on poor Yorick’s skull

Barely holding back the stallions of a Briggs and Stratton
you smell the nearness of becoming void and null

You wonder how’s my ticker doing
and will I soon be caving in a final bow?

You consider, I could suddenly be toodle-looing
I could be tumbling headlong into dirt right now

You wonder then-if the world will matter
You wonder, how deep’s this mine?

You wonder how far your dust might scatter
You wonder how much longer the juice will crackle
down and up your spine

Jim Culleny; spring 2006


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