A POET'S LAMENT

i have no secrets left
everything has been surrendered -- it was all mundane and of little interest to anyone
all my catastrophes -- the hair loss, the unrequited affections,  etc. -- were apparently flashes in the pan of an ordinary life,
worthy of a sympathetic nod or a little reassurance
or maybe some half-assed advice from a stranger eating a stale doughnut in a church basement

all my addictions were easily overcome

my proclivities were banal -- i said banal -- with a "b"
all my sins were venial -- the priest sighed
and i said some Hail Marys as instructed and, according to him,  all was forgiven,
easy as that
i confessed to my steady girl and she said, "hell, who ain't done that?"
and i said, "hell if i know" like i didn't care
but, i swear, it got me wondering what she does when i'm at work

all the other women
who gathered at my window were at the wrong address

i directed them across the street to my neighbor -- Jim -- the fat, unemployed guy who gets all the girls

then i went to bed and masturbated