The string of things I haven’t done could reach
from here to every place I’ve never been:
New York, Golden Corral, an orgy, Rome.
They say that’s a bucket list. My great-grandfather
worked his neighbors’ farms to keep his own,
carrying the tin lunch pail that’s now on my shelf.
Some days he probably swung it empty from dark to dark
hoping someone could toss in day-old bread or a nickel.
My guess is he would be awed by all we have. Or mad at what he didn’t.
My dad griped that we barely had a pot to piss in, but barely
does a lot there. We had a pot to piss in, I’m saying, even Pizza Hut
on paydays, a quarter for Pac-Man if we were good and lucky.
Ain’t no hole in the washtub, sang my mom,
and she was right, though there was once a hole in the back room ceiling
that filled the chili pot when it rained hard and long.
So I’ve never been to Brazil but I’ve never gone hungry,
always had bread, bologna, a coffee can full of grease
way at the back of the fridge, second shelf.
I think I’d like to finish my life with whatever it takes to endure it.
Beyond that, I don’t know. The smell of his pillow. A dog.
Maybe a vodka to close it out. Enough.
