tried to beat the devil out of you. I tried
to love it out. You were born soiled. And you
died in your own soil. No one knew. But I do. I can’t
wash my hands clean of it. You tried to cover it

after ***, wipe it away with the washcloth on
the nightstand. Take me to the bar afterwards. We
conversed about heaven and hell, Adam and Eve while you
ate the salted olives in the ***** martinis. I went home

with a buzz to my handicap son. You drove off in your *******
black car to your townhouse, the urbanite monk that likes to park
his junk at 41 Seaverns Avenue. The devil made me. What -
buy this dress? No. Take it off, along with myself and my pride

and everything else honorable and respectable
and shuck it like an oyster to **** out the slimy middle. And then
drink it down with brine. How is it in the fire pit? You were
always smoking hot.