I’ve been lying in the compost pit
trying to get back to my essential elements.

The crows give me a curious look but
the crows have always given me a curious look

like I’m a trinket they can steal and add to their nest.

I’ve gotten to an age where I’m often cold
so I appreciate the heat from all that’s decomposed.

I’ve gotten to an age where the cotton fibers
of my shirt have lost their desire to flirt.

When my wife used to call me, I yelled
back down the stairs I’ll be right there,

just give me a year or two.

When our dog used to bark my wife told the dog
to take me out for a walk.

There’s much to be said for solitude, though solitude
is a state that dictates nothing be said at all,

a place to witness the dry emulsion of old photographs
still holding pride of place on the wall.

There’s one crow who has the gleam of my cheap watch
in his right eye, and he’s welcome to it.

It’s strange how things ill-assembled are sometimes the things
most coveted; but not, it seems, these thoughts that I’m having:

a scree of bright stones, not one of which do the crows
find worthy of bringing home.