You might go down to the oyster bar by the train tracks where they have the squat ketchup bottles, salty fries and cold beer. Where the sunburned tough boys go after working outside all day, to get drunk and drop Spanish olives in their beer glasses, staring dumbly at the bartender’s body while she shucks Wellfleets with her back turned to them, one bra strap slipping out from under her sleeve and down her arm.
If you don’t die and you can still walk, you might make your way around the phantasms of memory to a bench where you can sit with your hedgehog belly and eat pistachio ice cream and watch the carousel of the world continue to go around. Maybe you’ll live to be so old that the period of grace will have passed, and people will avoid you as if you’re a Japanese stinkbug, exuding an obnoxious smell when crushed.
You might wrap a bandanna around the top of your salt and pepper head, your sorry hollow eyes sore as the knees of a carpenter, your olive oil hands barely keeping together, as if they were bound ashes in the breeze along an old country lane. If you donate your organs, someone else might use your wandering heart if it has any beats left unbeaten. The skin, eyes, liver, kidneys you have used might be used by someone else, fenders at an auto salvage.
You might while away the time just roaming the streets in a state of supreme marvel, or drifting the house, room by room, on a warm night to the sound of rain. What an accomplishment that would be.