Yes, we no longer have to travel
twenty miles to buy a nail, but please, God, don’t let me end
like this, armpit tufts
in a tank top, shuffling along in flip-flops
through the post-apocalyptic,
mutant Wal-Mart, hag-skinny, or waddling, flesh wobbling,
carts full of fat and sugar.
Scared straight, I buy the bran flakes
instead, fresh fruit, a lean steak
to stave off the probably
like the closing of the steel mills
where they once worked,
two cars and a boat in every yard,
a sky of soot, and lungs
still hacking out.
No, no twenty-mile drive
anymore, just the blue sky
again, an empty yard,
some overgrown mills,
a coffin-nail cough,
and a nail
for every coffin.