SHOTGUN
The last time I felt good?
Taking out the garbage,
I wobbled against our car,
bumping its side view mirror,
which sagged, sounding
like a broken wind chime.
When I asked the service rep
how much to fix it, with a
straight face, he replied $650.
I bet he'd never before had
an elderly gentleman shout
"Are you fuckin' nuts? "
& lay rubber as he vacated
the premises. I felt good!
My hearing's gone,
my eyesight's going
as if my body wants to say
farewell before I'm ready.
Getting old's a bore. Hearing
or writing about it, even worse.
Ask Hemingway, who ate
his shotgun as if growing old
doesn't beat the alternative.
Sometimes I feel
like a Family Dollar store
in a dying strip mall.
But why dwell on it?
Oh, look! A roadrunner!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem