Coot (Poem)

I won’t eat in a restaurant.
They make me nervous.
I eat a lot of spam and tomato soup.
I roast weenies on a fork over the gas jet.
If you eat in a restaurant you might get hepatitis and die.
I’m seventy-seven years old and I still have pretty near all my own teeth.
I had to pull a tooth once but dentists make me nervous.
I tied a wire to it and to an anvil
I dropped from my grandfather’s barn loft.
I once ate a pekingese while lost in the forest.
It wasn’t that bad.
It had kind of a musky flavor.
I haven’t had hot water in my house since 1967.
I just got tired of all those damn heaters burning out.
I don’t like to deal with things like that.
I heat my bath water on the stove.
I throw away my toilet paper in the garbage
Because I’m afraid the sewer will back up.
I wish I still had my camp, where the stove would play music.
I used to like staying up there.
But the damn kids with their Hollywood pipes bothered me.
I built a cannon but I couldn’t get the right wheels for it.
There was a guy who used to come into our shop who liked to whittle.
He drove a 1928 Chrysler.
You would have liked him.
He sold me the Chrysler because he needed money for a tonsillectomy.
I drove it until some kids joyrode it into the lake.
I used to take my accordion around to my girl’s house
But her stepfather poured kerosene on it.
Things like that make me nervous.

—Andy Senior

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