but we're not.
And we're graceless
skipping Grace.
And we're eating
from the table
too careful of our toes.
And we're armed
beyond our teeth.
And we're sober
as the Pope
half pitching double-headers
or sharing beds alone.
And we're grateful
there aren't albums
and the photos aren't in print
since we'd have a lot to conjure.
It hasn't been nostalgic.
We were warned to stay away.
We came, as Catholic raised.
Eve was hexed a harlot.
Now will you pass the fruit?
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