That was a good end, Frank, clam digging north of Pismo
your old fat body toppled in the surf
slammed to the sand in cardiac arrest,
the golden labrador circling and returning
to nose the sodden corpse—colder each time, stiffer—
a bone damp chilly dawn, low tide, socked in with fog.
Pacheco Pass, back before the war,
one sweet duck gun the Winchester over-under
scabbarded on the fender of your Indian
biking into Los Banos for Basque food and wild ladies:
“opened the cabin door, she stood there just in hip boots—”
Stopped the truck and vanished in the fog
across cow pasture and returned arms full
of portabello mushrooms, a paisano luxury
alongside porterhouses on the grill, potatoes,
the cabin air smoked blind with garlic and fried onions
and California Dago Red and laughter.
The family ranch, 80 acres of orchard
bulldozed for development: walnut, apricot,
cherries—Bings and Tartarians—uprooted, toppled,
overthrown. Clotted with clods, the fists of the root knots
clench skyward, torn, their branches smoking pyres:
the ruffled veil of foam slides up the beach,
the backwash piling up against the dog's paws
splashing and slipping back into the outskirts of the breakers.