The first thing I did was look around

to see if anyone else saw me fall.

I lay there for a minute

on my back in the grass feeling stupid.

The sky was a deep bowl of blue,

the grass cold. It was mid-April,

pink crabapples flowering in the Spring

of my sixty fifth year.

Yes, I drink too much,

which doesn’t mix well with the eight pills

I take each day to keep myself alive.

But I refuse to surrender this pleasure in life.

It’s too soon to start falling,

break a hip or something.

I’m vigorous and healthy with a cock

that sometimes stands at half-mast,

sometimes at attention, mostly

watches me tie my shoes.

I don’t think I’m anything out of the ordinary,

in that most things I’ve tried haven’t worked out.

My main goal remaining to do what I want

when I want, knowing full well this proves impossible

but for despots and trillionaires.

In that spirit, I return to the pushmower,

which starts like a charm.

I move over pink crabapple petals

decorating a green lawn.

Looking forward to a hot shower,

two cold beers, sipping bourbon

while reading some better poet’s work.