At seventy-seven I reached my prime.
But seventy-eight was also absolutely great.
And then came fab seventy-nine and continuing to climb.

Plop the live lobster into boiling water and let it scream.
You both turn red. 
Of course you have to eat it dead. 

I’m from St. Louis and Budweiser.
I’m from the Seidel Coal and Coke Company and the Mississippi.
I’m from the old streets near Forest Park,

He has a lazy father in Minnesota.

I hope you never have to do this in life, with its crazy little darkened
rooms. People are standing, an accurate jumble. Famille rose happy campers.

We talked about the great error
that you can live with
and really can’t afford to get.

Did he describe the blue stripe again,
unelected governor?
And from trees to hospitals, one story

I meant to wake up and had or had not
To the lines from an ordinary song
I saw my problem as that line

My voice carries further, almost
All the way to the face, I go
But not forth, or I went suspended

When he slide it in the slot and press
the buttons in their order, wait,
he’s empire-building. Damn straight.

He rode “no hands,” speeding
headlong down the hill near
our house, his arms extended,