I told my wife today
I won’t leave the house again
except to feed feral cats that gather
on our patio at dawn
to yowl for grub and water.
Otherwise I’ll stay home except
to go to church on Sunday.
At the very least I want to say hello.
The day I die, however, I’ll go right
to Feldmann’s Funeral Home.
I’ll need a lift, of course, but
I paid Feldmann’s long ago
to wake me on my stomach,
pants pulled down around my knees
so folks can read my new tattoos,
one ablaze on each buttock,
easy to read in red calligraphy.
The left one screams “Kiss this”
and the right one shouts “Or this.”
I’m pro-choice, I guess,
when it comes to this.