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.