I don't have
A portrait
Draped in my empty attic;
But I have
A rear-view mirror
To reflect back all my antics.
I see them strewn
Across the road,
Drivers swerve
To avoid these loads.
I've littered streets
With vices,
Discarded sharpened axes,
Hewed at those
Who've loved me
With remorse;
Regrets, I carry
In my trunk,
Like junk
They take up space.
I haven't room
For my spare,
Emergency flares
Or personal cares.
So, I stare straight
Out my windshield,
Convince myself
I'm healed,
I buttress nerves of steel,
And continue down my road.
Like all good drivers
I check my mirrors,
And there I see
Red lights draw nearer.
I should take up
Portrait painting
To cover up
My shame.
I am guilty;
I've not
Been framed.