i could write the story of my life remembering all that was,

forgetting the things i forget. i couild start at the beginning,

work through to the end when it comes. it could be that way.



may be, i have already written much of it in bits and       scraps

here and there. such is the way of it. some things come random.



not as you expected.                     i was to tell my story, you said.



i cannot be

bothered. there is no interest.



if there is, it can be googled, gathered, stitched quilt like into some



image.



i cannot remember my granpa fondly, for he was dead a while before.



you told me your tale, silked tongue, the things you wished me to know.

not

impressed.



no need to impress. cat **** leaves on skin leave black marks. remember?



recall the smell.



i could write the story of my life.



sbm.