I'm Busy

Cutting coupons at the kitchen
table, eating cheese and crackers.
A fat cigar churns smoke into
the overhead light, more yellow,
less white. I hear the fridge
cranking hard, breathing, inching
out ice. It's stingy with that ice.
I could use a drink, but it's only tuesday.
I take tuesdays off. It's a rule,
one of the few rules I have.
Well, there is the rule
about never getting married again,
and about never saying 'I love you'
to someone I'm sleeping with.
The other rules are posted on
the white magnetic board
in the kitchen, but it's too far
away for me to read. My eyes
are shot from doing these crossword
puzzles. The phone keeps ringing.
It doesn't pay to answer
the phone anymore, so I let it ring.
It's someone trying to sell you
something that you already have, or
dont' want. No one interesting
seems to call, they all want to e-mail
or text now, anyway. What the hell.
My phone is magical though, it takes
pictures. When my keys bump
up against it I take pictures of the
inside of my pants pocket.
It also takes videos, it's a typewriter
and a computer, and it tells me
when it's time to take my meds.
It's beeping this very second.