101

He lived to the age of 101
(what a nice number)

And they asked him:
How?
When your counterparts died
at 81: brain cancer
at 72: pneumonia
at 65: old age
at 28 by their own hand

And he says to them:
Each morning, when I wake up
(The radio already playing)
I eat a banana
(sometimes a peach, or a cup of black tea)
I go outside
Get in the ute
(we used to have to walk, now I live in luxury)
To the paddock where I left the cows last night
I open the gate
(the rest of the gates are already set, pointing them to the dairy)
I wait. Watching the stars, or the blank sky, in Summer I watch the sunrise
When the last animal is through the gate, I close it
The gate buzzes as I touch metal to receiver, connecting the electric fence
(If you chase the cows out once of the gate, they’ll expect it everytime)
I milk them,
(before, by hand – now, with machines)
Give some their shots, hose down the yard full of shit
They dawdle out, down the road, I would have already set those gates as well
I close the gate to their new paddock.

It was this routine that kept him whole, from degrading by the thick, choking hands that took the others.
The chemicals of pesticides, of depression, of alcoholism.
The same steps every day spared his life (until age 101), an impressive feat.