-the Port winemaker-

before you were measured for a new

suit of lacquered pine;

when your liver was still moist with medicine

and weighed overhead;

and the tubes were readied to flow

when the valves

opened-up to the stainless-

steel sinks

and the tapes rolled quietly

from the back of the room capturing sounds
of the final business of you—

and the guy in Kansas gets an eye

from someone else,

somebody a lot younger than you, old-timer

and nothing left is stored away in a vat
of smoking nitrogen

awaiting the time to come for you to paint
your masterpiece,— 
but only that which was tagged

with the name we gave to them,
the name you lived with now reserved
for quick disposition.

and the tag's removed from its tie around the toe

of the only foot you had left, Grandfather,

and that’s it.