At Twelve O’clock, Longing for Eleven Fifty-Nine

for Raymond

The Negroni sunset off his bald pate
says it all, says diabetes will get me
in shape for prostate surgery
then trips to all the warm places,
says half of life is just showing up,
says after all the wisdom it was a fan
that killed Thomas Merton. You never know
when life is going to invaginate
everything you thought you knew.
The color of evil is actually chartreuse.
Licking all those stamps
leads to some sticky situations,
the love of your life hooked up
to thirteen monitors. Plenty of time
to think about all those martinis
and the smoked rack with paprika
and garlic mashed potatoes
and a fine Bordeaux. You know
you knew all this would end,
just not when. Now, the soul
you always sought is apparent,
all spreadeagled on the linoleum
oozing light. This is how we snarl,
nuclear physics a nice party trick
but not terribly helpful winning bridge
or fingering Mary on the rosary.
Just one more Sunday afternoon,
margarita in your hand,
in your veins, in your pool
all wet and warm and cool
and kids splashing as you do your
old man exercises and the meat cooks
and everything is okay for a minute.
Can you say electronics made it easier?
Say the reboot made everything click?
Say the Florida weather made it all better?
At least you had a center to your universe
for a while, a home that made you smile
and corned beef worth killing for,
which is more than most men get.

Originally accepted in Meridian magazine, Summer 2025, but I forgot to send in a corrected manuscript so it never appeared. But it did my my book, Everyday Oblivion, which can be purchased where all Brian Builta products are sold.