Whack-A-Mole

I am old, near death, with questions. I dig for answers.
Mole-sized, I scuttle over the lawn, dig a hole and enter.
A twitchy nosed mole rounds a corner and mocks me.
With outsized claws she continues to relentlessly dig,
tunneling ahead like a manic bucktoothed bulldozer.
Moving dirt, eating earthworms like I suck fettuccini ribbons.
“I have some introspection. I look beneath the layers,” she says.
“They say I encourage self-discovery; but it just a myth,” she says.
“Well,” I say, “I guess this is worth a shot, how am I going to die?”
She smiles and says, “Whack-a-Mole. Always an excellent choice.”
She disappears, the crumbs of her work raining softly behind her.
Whack-A-Mole. No radiation. No chemo. No messy lingering.
“Thank you!” I yell and start a new shaft toward the surface.
Whack-A-Mole. One whack and it’s over. One and done.

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Mac McLeod is a new poet and an old man. At 89, he is on the cusp of death and many of his poems reflect him teetering on that ledge, loose rocks already crumbling. He is a southerner by birth, disposition, and education. He’s earned various degrees: a B.A., M.Div., Juris Doctor. He has had a rich and eclectic life. A father of five, former senior military aviator, lawyer, and Episcopal priest. His children are all artists and two are published writers.