By Guest Author Vol Lindsey

I’m an old man now,
so everything is a memory
tinged with the frustration
of fiery desire that lingers on
in my orange sundowns
and sleepless nights.

I tossed my empty bucket
list next to a random stand
of cactus where it will rust
away for an unimportant
eon or two. It leaked, so
passersby who see its dented
carcass will pay no mind.
The fog outside my window
is thick enough that my
rheumy eyes have no idea
what’s going on past that field
out back I have no plans for.
It needs a new fence, a job
I don’t want to tackle.
If I did, I’d have to make
all manner of lists involving
times, tools, and material
that would do nothing
to assuage the flames
licking at my ankles and calves.
It is a good road from me
to you. There are pubs all
along the way, and trees
with nesting birds, deer
all antlered out who stomp
the ground and snort;
little white churches sending
their beautiful young decked out
in finery to be fruitful and multiply.
But I am an old man now
possessed with fiery desires
and no lighter pine or kindling
to be found anywhere in the
deserted ghost town where
I have chosen do the thing
I used to call life.

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