A 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 me 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
up and down your spine.