I Saw Plenty

I’M WRITING a poem at my desk overlooking the bay when Rory arrives with news that Carl is dead. Which is too bad. It isn’t a good poem but that’s the point, that I want to make it better, and Carl’s dying isn’t likely to help. Rory is missing two fingers on his left hand, his middle finger and his pinkie. Chainsaw accident. With the remainders he points down the channel, at the end of which is Carl’s cabin. Rory’s children found the body, he says, and Rory came immediately to me. Why he thinks a doctor, much less a retired one, would be required in the event of corpse-finding, I’m not sure. Maybe he thinks there’s still hope. Or maybe he thinks I still have some authority in such matters. It’s true that RCMP boats are rare around here, much less a coroner. But their absence doesn’t make me any more official.

It’s late