SOUR GRAPES

Don't laugh.

I don't care.

I didn't want her anyway.

Or that house.

Or the money her dad left.

It means nothing.

I'm fine.

I'm happy.

It's for the best.

If she was good enough for me

she would have stayed

or not kicked me out on the street

or something.

It's good.

I'm fine.

I wouldn't want anything better.

It's all right.

It's all good.

The salt in my wounds can flavor my meals.

The urine I sleep in can make lemonade.

These cold cold street corner will keep it cold

and remember, of course,

that from the sourest of grapes

come the finest whines.

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