I might perhaps wax patrician,
dressed in flimsy, Kmart wings
my tail tucked neat between
my legs, my knapsack packed
with bribery; for if by chance
I find I’m wrong, I won’t waste
time with dogma or philosophy.
Some spices placed within a pocket
of a purple, well worn shirt, then if I’m
grokked I’ll make a fine soup, drink
me with a glass of chardonnay, you’ll
probably fine some sugar hidden in
the cambric weave, which afterwards
will make a very sweet dessert.
Since I’ve come so close to leaving,
thinking of my wayward past, I’d like
to guarantee my comfort, let my soul
be free at last. I’ll send instructions
to relations, outlining their celebration,
beer, agave, salt and lime, I want
them all to have a time, for I
don’t want my family grieving.