Michael Hanner
Physical
Someone is perpetually hammering on my egg
to hand me my morning's Windsor knot.
Breaking through the shell of dawn,
my small list for the doctor, Is it cancer?
The alarm clock was designed with good motives.
Richard Nixon did the best he could.
I am without coffee to please some flowered tech,
some polyestered smock who will draw my blood.
On the white form beside father, cause of death, I write,
Cadillac. My tetanus shot is good for two more years.
Sitting in a backless gown, my brief suspension bridge,
I am disjointed. Dilapidating before my failing eyes.
In my hand my penciled list: big toe, finger, mouth,
buy popcorn, leg pain. I buy rusty nails, head for home.
Michael Hanner lives in Eugene, Oregon where he is a member of the Red Sofa Poets and Pt. Townsend’s Madrona Writers. His work has appeared in Cloudbank, Nimrod, Tiger’s Eye, Margie, and others. He has published a number of chapbooks, including Winter Dreams (2011).
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