At 77

At 77

Coyote has a chest tube

strung from lung to plastic bag,

a ginger colored liquid trickling.

He’s prickly and not too clean,

carved down to sinew

and spots and yellow teeth.

He’s denned himself in

and doesn’t want much company.

I rub his shoulders, feel how the muscles

have let go of the joint.

The nurse comes in and he snarls,

rolling his eyes behind her back

to show me he knows what he’s doing.

He’s alpha still

through bed rails and morphine;

holds up the bottle

to show me how much he’s peed.