He isn't like the old men
who wonder if
we salt the waters
exumed from wells.
He's good as old ice -
cools tea with his finger,
will tease a finger round an ear
draw circles over the amygdala -
the brain's space for smell of fear,
and, he imagines, his fear of smells.
He isn't wondering why;
does wonder if it's he
or is it the dog, once,
was a part of an occasional dying poem.