at seventy-one
I’ve given up sin
so off go the
scanties to
thrift shop’s back bin

I scarcely recall
the donning or doffing
or even the reason
for all that put offing

the lights
were they dim
or were they full on
in deference to him

did he smile
all the while
I just can’t remember
was it love
or just lust
I hope it was tender

will they lay out the lace
in a prominent place
or throw it away
and leave not a trace of those
memories magic
and outcomes so tragic

but rules are the rules
knick-knacks are proper
but unmentionable
memories
get tossed in the hopper