They called here to tell me that your're finally dying, through
a veil of childish cries. Southern Manitoba prairie's pulling at
the pant leg of your bad disguise. So why were you so
anchorless? Shoebox full of photos; found a grainy mirror.
Sunken cheeks and slender hands. Grocery lists and carbon
copied letters offer silence for my small demands. Hey how'd
you get so anchorless? Got an armchair from your family
home. Got your P.G. Wodehouse novels, and your telephone.
Got your plates and stainless steel. Got that way of never
saying what you really feel: so anchorless. A boat abandoned
in some backyard. Anchorless in the small town that you lived
and died in.