No Grapes for the Widowman’s Wares

Left with no refuge against
death- dead wife and
barren vines-
he left with a basket of
thwacked finery and
thunderbird fins.

He rows his flatboat
in a river swollen
fishtail white with
testacean frothiness.
He knows there are
no laws in time.
He simply waits a slaver
like a hangman
no choice but
tying killing knots.

In town earlier before the tide
he watched a very
clever medico sterilize
the Wolfman’s bite.
The old man throws
his noose knot
from his flatboat and
wishes he was a younker.

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