It was my 66th year to Purgatory
Woke to sports talk droning
Grumbling lawn mowers too early (grRrRr)
Gray this place, the trash with squatter’s rights,
The sights are dusty, rusty, musty
Dim from screen-eroded eyes.
Too lazy to reach the tall peak
Of the distant lamp.
I camp, I lie in the bed unmade
Or rather made of wrinkles
Cut cut the ancient skin.
Can I get credit as a saint
If I’m too tired to race to sin?
My cake in bruised and canted box
Nutella from the Polish, Buddist-tattoed,
Baker down the street. Birthday wishes
From the salesgirl;
the only one in person to wish me so.