On what might they blame my internment?
Surely, not a lack of discernment.
Not without its loneliness & tears…
Have been these fifteen celibate years.
It seems that I’m choosy to a fault…
To have found myself here in this vault.
Vulnerable; both soaking & wet…
Alone down here in my oubliette.
As Sun & Moon scrape my grill themed skies…
We’re to hang hope on dead rich white guys?

