I've sloughed off skin so many times,

cast rattlers in the sane behind.

In Phoenix and Los Angeles

I burst into brand new selves,

cleaned out the ashtrays and moved on.

​

The Captain understand all this,

the new careers with no gold watch,

the marriage that I muddled through, 

the daughters lost to other states,

their children runways, highways off.

​

His latex gloves arrange the tubes

like salty deckhands tying line.

As he unwraps the new needles,

I hear my voice speaking secrets.

Then he's listening, wiping blood.

​

A last smoke halo sailing off,

the iron buzzing in his hand,

he etches the lines on my triceps;

a kedge that moors me to a shore

less fading than identity.

​

I tell him this and he just smiles

as if he's blessing death away

with something certain to survive

the blood vessels and graying hair,

the dead reckoning that remains.

​