I didn't write enough this week
and now I am in a borrowed living room
on a borrowed Friday night
without a borrowed muse
just watching tennis on television.
There is water in the remote
so I can't change it;
there are only Reese's in the fridge
so I eat them.
I resolve to use my hands
to make this hour grand
before falling asleep on the floor
and help me forget this consciousness,
with some good ideas.
What's the worst that can happen?
I die in my sleep and dream of heaven.
Which is one lottery, so I make a drink:
whiskey and pickle juice from the cabinet.
I turn off the tennis,
pull a book from the shelf
that doesn't have a cover,
flip to the middle
and start reading.