Love was his real work
A Depression child who
Raised seven dogs
Worked fifty one-hours a week:
Three dollars pay
Age fourteen
He stood short
Thick arms
Squat legs
Paperhanger strong
Small enough for tail gunner
He ripped up those orders
Survived the war
His mates fell in frozen trenches
Returned to love one woman
Adoring his wife
Terrifying her to move
She thought leaving Brooklyn
Meant losing her soul
She kept it
His head a music box
Chords called his moods
Far better than words
Words could be bent
He was ramrod straight
Animals came to him
Women studied him
Some colleagues saw
A man they could use
And did
He wanted to hate them
Failed
When it was too late
The ice-machine surgeon froze the cancer
Burned through his guts
Plastic clamp to stop his piss
He hated pain
Of that he learned too much
At the end
He who’d do anything to live
Said if you love me
Get me a gun
I’m no son-of-a-gun
But death became his wish
What does one leave?
A craving for kindness
A nagging yearning
Long as one’s memory lasts
All that you forget
Forms ice mountains
Glowing underground
Shining above what’s lost