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
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.
no need to impress. cat piss leaves on skin leave black marks. remember?
recall the smell.
i could write the story of my life.