On Coming Home

I reheat the leftover rice for one minute
and zap the tinned con carne for two,
then scoop the rice over the con carne and finish
the pair of them off in the blink of an instant
distraction as seen on the smart flatscreen boob.

I make it my business to eyeball the news
during dinner and call that my workday’s denouement:
Evenings are new days for taking a cruise
through analog music and internet ooze–
destination, blues bruising amusement.

Sometimes my TV turns on by itself,
I forget where I was and think, “There goes my cue.”
One tub from my freezer of two ice cream shelves
(no shelves in this freezer for anything else)
is wrapped in a tea towel and topped with a spoon.

The sugar guilt starts about ten minutes in
to the tub and by twenty the tic
and the toc of the clock are performing incisions
like calls from a Wasted Souls sales division.

I turn off the TV, retire to bed,
and fall asleep reading a book.

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