This elephant keeper shoved a hose up

The ass of an elephant every day. He

Told a man. The man said, So why don't

You quit? And the keeper said, You have

To understand: elephant bowels are fragile,

You only spray a little and shit flies

All over. . . .  And the man said, I understand, 

I think, someone has to, but why don't you

Quit?  And the keeper said, And leave show

Business?  I don't know who first told me,

You'll die someday, you can't live forever. 

I don't know who took my hand and said,

Some things, not all things, are possible. 

At a state mental hospital where I work

I asked a patient once what he remembered.

Everything. Everything that ever happened.

Thinking back, incompletely, I think

I must've disbelieved his ease, his willingness

To witness all his loss always, so I asked,

Just having heard the stupid elephant hoke:

Anything about elephants? pets?  He had a dog:

Bean, Bingo, something like that. And he walked

Him every day on a leash and they bought

A hamburger every day on South Harrison

Or North Harrison, somewhere in Shelbyville.

I asked where the dog was. He said he loved

Him so much he'd drink out of the river

And the dog would too, he loved him

So much. I have to admit I had to say

Something and of course there was nothing

To say. His head was down as he drank.

The water was sweet. Easily I left him

Alone to walk myself out of the river

Of sense. I remember riding shotgun

In a truck with my Uncle Ralph across flat

Kansas. He said something. I said, Really? 

And he said, Hell yes boy, do you think

I'd lie? Why do you always say really?  

And I didn't know, God help me, I don't

Know. He was my uncle. He wouldn't lie.

Truth is I hadn't been listening,

But watching the long rows pass my window,

I was busy being elephant keeper

And elephant, the hose inside, the dog

That drank with a man, and the river, where

Everything is equal, is possible, where

I knew I'd die someday and live without

Sight or sound or touch, possibly forever.