in a sense a confessional 

I’m incurably impetuous.

It seems I've accomplished something, but before a chance

at redemption from elements of awkwardness,

I stand on the stage of public exhibition, my pants below my knees

drawing a comical drapery.

I understand that my indulgences might advance to my eulogy,–– 

but if luck has its way, maybe not.

I won't be taking my credentials with me

or one more tomorrow, or the loves of my life, my indulgences or

my opinions, or my money.

but I've informed my mortician in writing, notarized and delivered

by registered mail that my pants be belted and well secured.