From Herring Cove.
I have six gold teeth in my head.
If things get bad, they come out.
Keep me fed on sailor's biscuit and gin.
Recently, I got thin, having lost
the weight of one small child.
I don't miss her, that little tot
made of fat, exiled pound by pound, breath by breath.
Each day, a little lighter in the loafers,
a little less tight in the suit.
Treaty num-num, I made you out of boredom, out of sadness, out
of English muffins and of beer.
But also joy, mixed nuts, a little fear.
Today I lie upon the sands of Cape Cod,
exposing my mixed parts to the sun.
Midnight breakfast, mortadella, Swedish pancake, cake for lunch,
I liked you going down.
You were fun.
But like these gulls and piping plovers, forever hungry,
I watch you run.