To the Publishers:

I can run fast.

I beat the long-striding Russell Silvia to the chain-

Linked fence across the tarmac of the schoolyard

To the astonishment of the girls.

Pardon me. Allow me to begin again.

I’m too old to run fast. I’m nearly too old to run at all.

I beat Russell in 1958.

But I’m strong.

I can twist the tightest cap of the jelly-jar

To open freely against the stubborn, sugared-

Cement at its flights, impressing the women in the pantries.

A moment, please. Allow me to clarify.

I have trouble scooping the ice cream from the freezer.

I can’t open anything that’s stuck.

Soon enough I’ll sleep wherever they sit me down

As people I've counseled through the years shout instructions

Close to my ear assisting me in the daily mechanics of life, warning

Of the dangers in the kitchen where the fires of gas-burners threaten

And knives are exposed with the open exhibition of their blades.–– but

I see clearly.

I can manage the imagery.

My dead friends depend on this.