Wrapped I clutch my throat, spy over my shoulder. Newports and chardonnay ripple around my neck, a warm wrap of lustful moments I should probably forget. But I keep those memories fresh. They bounce in my hot cycle. I wear them like couture before they dilute back into Lake Winnebago. New lovers came and ran, like silk stockings worn without care. Obviously, I discard some in regular rummage sales of the soul. I store others deliberately, not for fear of loss, but for frugality. I won’t wash away a fortune to organize my heart.