when he was dying again

the hospital room the most unpleasant shade

of green

my god couldn’t there be a better colour

and it’s so slow

this could take years

he lost a finger later on. part of an index, he hadn’t been

big on pointing anyhow. building the house

there a moment of attention for the wrong detail, a sudden slip,

the round notched wheel in the chainsaw. he drove

holding his left hand

level with his ear, pleased with the automatic transmission in his new blue lincoln

trying to keep his blood

off the upholstery. at hospital admissions he signed the form

as a doctor asked him Where is it?

replied Where’s What? (or Vhere’s Vhat, he never did

get those double-you’s sorted out, his lawrence velk

standby, it made both official languages sound oddly camp)

The Finger, the doctor waved his own hands,

shoulda brought her in, thrown some ice on her, we’d a hooked ya back

together. but as it is...

the scar finishes the finger tidily a single knuckle,

and the new refrigerator we bought

had one of those ice makers

in the door. it made

him laugh to demonstrate

the machinery, using his left hand, always, and then

when he’d notice a person looking he’d say, This Time

I’ve Got Advance Planning. leaving the person beside him

confused, unclear in front of the avocado-coloured

refrigerator.