While my bowl is still half full,
you can eat out of it too,
and when it is empty,
just bury it out in the flowers.

All those years
I had in my pocket.
I spent them,
nickel-and-dime.

Each clock tick falls
like a raindrop,
right through the floor
as if it were nothing.

In the morning light,
the doorknob, cold with dew.

Copyright © 2003 Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser All rights reserved
from Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry
Cooper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission