Hand over your intentions in a paper bag.
I’m not your precious savior.
I’m only your saving grace.
A stepping stone, a helping hand.
See you off at the local port.
I’ll forget your last name and what your lips used to taste like.
Do my taxes every year and I make my bed every morning.
I’ll lick the beer foam from my lips.
Solitude, a mental treasure.
When have the stars made wishes on us?
For all the fallen do they tighten their dreams?
I demand to know where I’m going.
No vacancy, not tonight.
Laughter is heroic when the time is right.
If I thought I had all the time in the world,
I would have found a better way to end this poem.