Passion of Crimes

Haven’t caught a cantankerous cold in a long while 
– chipped my tooth on a Zoom call, though.

I am envious of Sam’s Brooklyn poem
– just a scorpio missing home. 

Can’t use the word persnickety in a sentence with a straight face
– not everything is about the risk of sex and death.

Always wanted to date someone who could cut hair
– then I’d always have a fresh fade.

My sickness is lies I tell myself 
– like this isn’t forever or rather the middle of it. 

My crimes are love, impatience, stubbornness
– I’ll go fishing but I ain’t touching the catch.

The internet delivers all sorts of funny fates
– if she plays the fiddle, I am hers.

However, I don’t do much scheming these days
– just sitting on cornerstones confronting failures. 

Without forgetting certain songs or sessions
– for good or ill, I remain intense in these misdemeanors. 

Ailing away qualified days
– I’m ready to get better with a jury of witnesses on my throwing hand.