All are equal in the eyes of our Lord.
I sat in that old rocking chair, marking each new day with the same old things. Curtains open, sun in, biscuits made with slamming pans.
Life lays low like Johnny Cash. A whiskey-soothed song of a century.
Out of my window, I cannot tell which of my vices has done me worst.
I sing a hymnsong to mark this, my last day staring at green pines, honeysuckle, old porch through smudged glass.