old widower man sits outside his tiny trailer
on a worn aluminum folding chair
under an awning not far from the pier
Reads the paper
drinks coffee through teeth stained in nicotine
(some of which are still his own)
holding a stogy with nicotine fingers, listening to the gulls
Afternoons, if it’s not too hot, he gathers with the other ancients
to play pinocle or drop a line to catch a fish
sit in the folding chair all day
catching and shooting the breeze.
His son and wife have come to town
staying at the Motel 6
widower man’s trailer much too small
“It’s time for you to come with us
back home to Indiana
to that nice assisted living place we talked about;
after all, you are four score and ten.”
“We want to hear no more about it!
You’re much too old to live alone, here in this trailer park;
this dump so far away from us;
we’ll pick you up on Saturday to take you home to Indiana.
And when they left for the Motel 6
old widower man took his folding chair to the darkened pier
sat by the water in the moonlight, looking over the bay
listening to the night sounds, humming “Perfidia”
his young fingers
gently held a woman’s breast
his nicotine fingers
gently held a gun.