My brother's wife is dying,
diagnosed three months
prior to my spouse
they have had almost
three years.

I am happy to have been first,
for now I know how to be
that older brother
never there for him before.

It is peaceful on the farm
the cycles present themselves
as nature instructs,
together they bury the beloved
in the garden.

My dear ones fashion markers from
bark, agates, photographs
and feelings.

I watched them laugh
in the heat of the brutal
southern summer
hosing each other cool
naked as jays in their fifties,
humor comes without
a date of expiration.

My brother is the family
genealogist, he knows every
detail of our heritage,
knows his black neighbor
is our relative,
when they fish they are uncle
and cousin.

Laura prepares them sandwiches
from the garden, curses the raccoons
for eating all but the last tomatoes,
she slathers them with mayo
for the boys on the plantation's
levy.

Bob takes her for chemo at 6am
all year long.
They read each copy of Prism
in the cubicle
while Laura is tethered,
making mental notes
of my perceptions
for accuracy.

Soon I will get the call
I will be up even though
it is 2am.
What we say to one another
will be private but only for
a time.

Life is designed to be shared,
it is not a secret hell
to be endured.
We will likely walk again
on the rich soil Laura
called "Green Acres."

He will see her planting
cukes and maters in spring
grateful for the strength
of wreckless youth
which drove her from the Bronx
at 17 determined not to be
the butterfly of New York class
with all its dreadful
opportunities.

I've been suddenly promoted by 11 raunchy ****-joys to head of jury
after falling off the court house building that caused my head injury
that was injurious to my slick-chick-hick-eye-baiting phlegm sprain
over the kitty cat calls of 1 swollen-shut dog's nictitating membrane
When cukes are worth more than gold, slutty *****'ll pawn pickles,
pickled in the remains of  satanical dirt-bag goons like Don Rickles
whose ill-will for krauts'll be sated when, with blood, Bonn trickles
I asked crapped-out Denis Johnson, the boozin' writer, dwarven elf,
Can't you spell Denis like everybody else? Denis Johnson, silly elf!
Start spelling Denis with 2 n's, like everybody in the world, or else!

to the baby, and its babies:
  
   your birth,
      and the woman waiting for you;

they are waiting.



everyone, is waiting.

time, is waiting.

the sea, is waiting.

elephants, are waiting.

the cukes in the vat are waiting to be pickled..

the pickles are waiting to be traded for cash.
to become their own weight in gold.

and the money, is waiting to be buried back into the earth, as the earth sits in its own sort of waiting,
   knowing, that

even the end is waiting.

while nothing also waits for anything else besides the end.