NO WARRANTY










The rudest shocks of old age
might have been anticipated
if I had been paying more attention,
especially when my father died
after rotting from the inside with cancer,
and Grannie’s heart stopped one day,
and they were just part of the evidence.











What could I have been thinking
when I looked into Viola’s casket
to see lying there the cold remains
of hot shared adolescent beauty,
or when I read in the paper
about Richard Powel’s not surviving
even long enough to go to college,
the boy who had the gym locker
next to mine all through high school.










These assembled parts,
this collection of bones and sinew,
blood and other assorted fluids,
this whole complete thing that I am,
this machine that thinks and feels
slipped into general use with no warranty.










Satisfaction is possible,
but not guaranteed.