I buried a can when I was twelve

That was seventy years ago

some of the contents:

a shotgun shell

an indian head penny

a Lone Ranger secret compartment ring

some .22 shells

an Orphan Annie decoder

a metal flying fortress plane

a G-man badge

an arrowhead

some wheat pennies

a worn dime

a small rubber car

a bicycle bell

my best shooter marble, orange, yellow and red

dime-sized tin itching powder, empty

1015 Manheim Rd.

Ten paces from the wrenhouse on a pole

toward the little fish pond

four paces toward Mr. Cato’s house

none of which are there anymore.

Good luck.

Epsom Salts and Filling Churches

Well, Tim, the horses are all gone now

so no more big vet bills. No having to share the

pain of an abscessed hoof, or trying to 

keep a horse standing in a bucket of warm water

and Epsom salts. But no more warm hellos

in the form of low throttles from a friend

who wants a knuckle rub on his/her back.

No more vet trips and all those damned shots

and worming and teeth floats.

No more worries how they’re doing in a storm.

Or conniptions trying to get rid of a horsefly.

You left too soon for us but you sure did fill

that big Catholic church. You missed 

covid. Or it missed you. But not like your

friends miss you.

The gates stand open. They still hay here.

I see an EAT BEEF plate on Nichols’ truck

and it reminds me of you.

I sold that old Billy Cook saddle. I kept the

saddle I used since the sixties. Sixty years ago.

And it was old then.

I wasn’t.

Might try some Epsom salts myself.

Long hot bath. Sounds good.

Read a book.

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