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off withdrawn smoking in the rain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.