I’ve been accused of blatant conniption fits. Overwrought shenanigans. Highfalutin’ distemper. Plotting against charitable organizations. Running against the wind.
I’ll take the rap for all the spooks in the closet. For the pill-poppin’ mood swings. For the Yes-We-Can people and the Over-My-Dead-Body crowd. For teenage novelists and disgraced generals. For the naughty priests and their wine-pouring altar boys.
I’m not looking for scapegoats or an easy exit.
For a blood-stained napkin with a note on it.
I’m just waiting for the bus to come.
When it does I’ll climb aboard and drop my sins in the coin box.
Sit up front near the driver.
Wait for the door to swing open wide again.