Cable Guy

St. Oppenheimer

8am, I watch Mrs. Claus blow Santa 
on your screensaver, note the stems 

in your ashtray, then run 
coaxial through a voice-less crawlspace. 

10:30, here's the signed headshot 
from Crystal at City Limits (circa '88), dog-eared 

issues of Bowhunter wedged 
behind your stereo. I go wherever 

I have to for a clear picture. I even go 
off withdrawn smoking in the rain

after you cancel. Don't 
sweat it, I'm a contractor, but when 

you sing to your cat "lumpy wench"
I know it's the pills, not you. Corporate-

climber, Rastaman, stripper, Mr. Mom -

don't think I really care about your hangover 
or marble countertops, that sore

on your lip. My back is shit from lifting this
ladder. It's fucking Saturday 

& I have to work again tomorrow. So 
if you want free channels all you have

to do is slip me a Benjamin & look the other way.