Modern Life

Don't leave me here
in the desert without
water and a horse.
I've got no survival
skills to speak of. I eat
out almost every night,
or microwave something
frozen. I buy wine
in a box, water in a bottle.
I've got two phones,
three computers, four
t.v's, five watches and a
camera I've never used.
The directions are in too
small of print. I buy
everything on credit. I
owe alimony, custody,
two mortgages and I have
a three year lease on a BMW.
My cat is in intensive care
from eating bugs, or
fig newtons that I left
on the radiator. Surgery
should solve the riddle.
The kids need braces.
I've got an ulcer the size
of a burrito burning a hole
through the lining of my
stomach. My girlfriend
has been throwing up
every morning, and she's
taken up knitting. I smoke
two packs a day. My
therapist wants me to
come in twice a week,
not once and he wants
my mother to come in too.
She's the key, he says
as I write him another check.
At the end of the month,
after it's all said and done,
I've got nothing, nothing.
On second thought, leave
me here. Maybe the desert
isn't so bad after all. Just
let me walk for awhile, okay.