As Smiles Give Way to Wrinkles

If I'm sometimes insolent,
blame the priest
who couldn't remember my name
after my first communion,
the girl, who after three dates,
never came to my surprise birthday party,
where my father and brother-in-law
drank all my rum, threatened to kill
a neighbour and blacked out so well
that I'll never forget it,
leaving me years later,
wondering where the colour went in my hair,
why the little red bible from grade school still lies
in my sock drawer like a dead mouse,
or when I'll stop staring at trees
wearing death shawls made of winter.