“Coughing, ululating, barking, whooping./Can he cough out the memory of a lonely/girl waiting, wanting, watching, waiting?”
Old men coughing, laughing, coughing
you’ve heard it, you hear it
libraries, diners, barbers, bars.
Chess, bingo, fishing on piers.
I’m trying to write, trying to think
old men laughing, coughing, laughing.
At a certain age in every order of
man, every brand, what starts as a
laugh ends as a cough.
A gentle chuckle, another bishop taken,
ripples of sound rising cresting
laughing, building, wheezing, coughing.
The aqueous juddering of frogs,
rattle-snake tails, the cackling of dead
leaves. Crackling.
Particles of tar, ragweed, dust mites—
we understand—but the volumes
in small rooms, why old man?
Old man in church, old man on a bench
trying to cough out his guilt hack out
his failure, his illusions.
Coughing, ululating, barking, whooping.
Can he cough out the memory of a lonely
girl waiting, wanting, watching, waiting?
Older older louder louder, a prayer piercing
high as heaven, a phlegmy psalm—
Old men coughing, clinging, coughing.
After graduating from the University of Chicago with a degree in philosophy, Tim F. Nichols worked as a writer in advertising for 22 years. He credits Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, with his accomplishments and accolades in that field, including multiple Cannes shortlists. His fiction and poetry have been published in the New York Times’ “Tiny Love Stories,” Oak Parker Magazine, Scribes Micro, and Bristol Noir.
