Red Hot Beef

I wake from an unneeded nap
under a loosely woven blanket
on the plush down of my couch
a chill from March's last laugh
sneaking through the fabric.
It's almost four in the afternoon.
My mouth has yet to meet
a glass, a fork, a toothbrush.
It's clearly time to add that fact
to the list of things to change.

My quadriceps ache as I rise
in the living room.
Have they atrophied from disuse?
Battery acid has replaced my blood.
I rub my goosebumped thighs to try
to get them back again.
Funny, my legs were her favorite.
Now, like the rest, they've gone.
I can almost taste the alcohol
that'll serve me once the sun's down.
A gentleman can wait for that.
Only fools rush in.

The kitchen greets me quietly
as I rummage through the refrigerator.
No leftovers left, no one-shot deals.
I open the freezer and pull a burrito
begrudgingly from the door.
I lived on these six years ago.
I thought I'd sworn them off.
The microwave does its thing
to my frozen Meximeat while
something squirrely draws me back
to the fridge to check one more time
as if the contents have changed
as if things shuffle around
when the light goes out, other
than in a bedroom.
All present and accounted for, though this time
I notice a package of chopped meat
that looks how my leg muscles feel.
The sticker on it reads 80% Lean.
At least I'm not the only one
making poor decisions here.

Summoned by a bell
I grab my sad brunch from the nuke
and stand on the faux hardwood
to dine in pseudo style.
An elderly neighbor speed-walks by
hoping to suck one more spring from life.
The smile makes it obvious: Cancer, two more years.
The tortilla burns my tongue since I could never
heat those things right, even with years of practice.
My left hand gets bored, finds a new distraction
in a comfortable place it's rested before.
It's OK. The neighbors can't see me scratching.
Character is what you do
when no one else is looking.

When the last bite's taken
I wash both hands in the kitchen sink
and make way for the couch
where indigestion will begin.
The sun's angled afternoon rays
pour in through drafty windows
as my eyes try to find green
in the yard, notice more in the neighbor's.

"Maybe he can't handle it,"
I say aloud when wondering why
the response never came.
Maybe the word "friend" crossed a line.
Should've kept a safe distance.
Should've kept the plan the same.
Should've brushed my teeth
right after the burrito.

The clock chimes, the needles prick
another day is spent
ripping nails from toes and fingers.
It's not the lack of money anymore.
It's that every day's the same.


Currently reading:
"Rabbit Redux" by John Updike.