Recluse

You'll be a recluse
a drunk who pours his own
you say.

Till you finish your book
a tale of
an actress who can't lie
a priest who must between
murders and weddings.
And lapsed fate, yes.

You will not speak
all compliments are traps
rot of the mind.

When I ask of the world
you say, "this idiot
president is smarter than us all.
It is a time for rats
as dilapidated cars take
the poor to hell."

Your new sports car mocks them all.

The rest of us must make do
solving the puzzle of wedlock
children, invisible charity
and every intended accident
fate announces posthumously.

Still, I look forward to your book
and would not mind being
in the dedication.