Immortals

Immortals
are easy to find:
ask around a local dive
and you’ll be pointed to them
seated with a mug
and a shot of ginger brandy
at a spot on the bar
grooved to match their perpetual
elbows.

Johnny, for instance,
one hundred and sixty if
he’s a day, recalls
how they cut the tree
that made the countertop
where the cash register sits.

Count the rings in the grain, he says,
and I’ll tell you a story for each band.
But before you start,
pour me another
beer and a bump.  Stories
are good but the now-buzz
is better, that’s how
I stay alive.

Maybe if you buy this round
and join him in it,
you’ll end up here too,
telling Johnny-stories
to seekers
a century from now.  Immortality
smells like an old drunk, sharp
with sweat and herbs
and the hoppy scent of sticking around
long after people forget you’re alive.