tuesday night 9:57

bored, lazy on
the leather couch,
stretched out.
the house is a
mess, sunday's paper
everywhere, a dish,
a cup, an empty
bottle of wine.
one shoe on, shirt
off, the remote
in hand. television
truly sucks, as
your son might say.
you can't flip
through the debris
fast enough.
and yet you manage
to go through all
nine hundred
channels. you wonder
what betty is
doing, and text her.
hey. she writes
back. hey.