To the Morning of September’s Twenty-Eighth Day In the Year of Our Absent Lord Two Thousand and Fourteen
Let’s get one thing clear:
I am not bald.
This once blonde head of hair is plum,
Ripe with hair you, Padre, can only imagine.
Like damn.
But let’s be serious for a change, eh?
Take a task to a point beyond anger,
Perhaps strike a desert bargain.
I’m joking, of course.
I expect nothing of you;
You expect nothing of me.
And so we are both not wrong —
The essential thing.
Destructive Anachronism 
I love plum. And I love the defiant tone of this poem!
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