mucus
this is the joy
in not having children
acting the petulant perpetual child
no one to rely on me
watching these diseased streets
from a time dusted window
the floor a gray carpet of old newspapers
and shitty unread books
this is the joy in not having friends
nearby or even in this state
pulled strands from the couch
dance in the breeze from open windows
crushed pillows
and i don’t have to clean it for anyone
sitting here pissing away another weekend
in the same clothing for three days
winedrunk flies circling used bottles
kicking up pine needles from fake plastic trees
watching dust balls roll
like southwestern tumbleweeds
another year waiting to do its damage
older but no more wiser
it pays to no longer anticipate a thing
no longer scared of any year
or what it’s going to reign down on me
this is the joy in not knowing my neighbors
when the door buzzes i know it’s not for me
so i let it sing
drink vodka in the twilight
an ancient cat sitting to my side
sick with everything
molted fur and brittle bones
she’s also sick with her age
sneezing yellow mucus all over my glass
and i don’t even have to worry
about who’s going come
and make me clean it up.
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