Thinking to myself

If you had any respect for the
dead
you'll move that bicycle frame to you
new man's
cave.

It carried a drunk
secret-keeper, abuser excused
and again---this time symbolically---
abused excused.

Whenever memories turn
tender steak pink sparkling wine on
past new year's when
I
was prisoner and
you were
pouting,

Whenever that happens I think
"these nightshades, I don't want
them anymore".

My genetic worries---here age
acts as a (cross your fingers!) Savior---
thank goodness he wasn't sheltered
I-am-guessing
I-am-hoping
I-am-praying

As an athiest, why am I praying?
Or is that genetic too?
Some with constant dosages of
mulled-fermented and
needing breathmints and
restlessness when the
pew wood is seeping.

He won't come with me,
at least I'm
judgement shielded.
These Sundays are respectful,
anyway.