He nurses his coffee, by himself most days, Occasionally with the one or two others Constituting the bulk of the clientele of the diner (Low-slung building both faceless and nameless Although those who remember a day When the village was at least borderline prosperous Still refer to it as “Kitty’s Place”, Though its namesake has been dead and gone some two decades) One of the few going concerns which implausibly remain, Seemingly through nothing more than sheer inertia, In the drab little downtown along Canton Street.
He languishes over his cup for as long as the mood hits him, There being no discernible reason to hurry (Indeed, the diner itself, once open before sunrise Now dark and silent until a leisurely seven-thirty or so) His place not really a working farm these days, Just a smattering of beef cattle (Milking and stripping out more than he can manage now) And what acreage of corn he can get in the ground. Eventually, he totters out of the front door, One sleeve of his shirt rolled and pinned up (Its former occupying member removed After the incident with the ancient and malevolent corn binder), Moving toward his truck with an all-but-one-legged gait, His left-leg jigsaw-puzzled By an overturned Farmall some time back (Most days he reckoned he’d tipped the tractor By failing to shift his balance to accommodate driving one-armed, Though if he was in a black enough mood he’d put it down To an old Iroquois curse placed on the entire St. Lawrence valley.)
One could say, if he was a poet Or some other **** philosophical fool, That these partial sacrifices served To ward off some even more awful finality. He would have none of that, of course—in his own cosmology The gods and demons most likely have bigger fish to fry, And, as to the prospect of some inexorable wreck and ruin, He is of the opinion that what he was given up to this point Is both ample and sufficient.