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.