Creative Writing Prompt: Abecedarian

Ah, there I go,
but for the Grace of God, a sticky
child kicking me in the shins,
digging through my purse for a quarter. Or, breaking down
elegy for a bunch of bored Christian farmkids, wanting only a
Ford, a backseat, a box of PBR, and a Friday night. Praise
God, instead, I am
here, raking the leaves for the thousandth time,
ignoring the new priest's insistence on pre-Vatican II,
joking with you during Happy Hour, dodging a
kiss from the drunk girl we gave a ride to after karaoke.
Laughing at your lips and your
moves,
never once mean, but always laughing.
Oh, you know, I'm just being myself. And as much as you
purse your lips, you know you love it.
Quietly, we've gone about building this, quiet like the
rust-colored burning coal veins.
Somewhere, we are envied. I have to believe this is
true. I am ready for a dirtier
urban landscape, one with a
view of laundry and tall buildings and floor-to-sky
windows reflecting the mass of people and cars and traffic lights.
Extracting the nostalgic prairie and looking, or maybe
yearning, for something a little bit North of
Zenith.