—question asked by Savannah Dudley

I've put aside kitchen knies.
Ski mask didn't survive.
I've capped the rattling bottle,
corked the jug, kept
filthy cigarettes in place
in a pocket on my chest.
I haven't clocked a kid in the head
with my aluminum lunch box
in almost forty years.

I lead a sedentary life as if awaiting
a push toward misadventure.

I love the word 'misadventure.'
It implies action. Also, goofs
that land a man in the stew,
stir, hospital, or morgue.

I'm afraid of more than death,
or less than, I should say.

Outside my door, the virus taunts
like a stranger flipping off convicts
through the window of a cell.