a throw away poem

you sign up for Uber
wanting to make a few extra
bucks to keep
a roof over your head
and the fridge stocked
with potato vodka
and limes.
but your car is old,
so you suggest
using your pick up
truck with an empty
space in the back
where you carry hay
and alfalfa for
your horses. i can fit
fifteen riders back there,
you tell them. sure they
say, then give
you the instructions
of what to do.
you call your eight
year old son on his
cell phone to help you
with the app, or is it
ap. who knows.
there is only one
restriction the Uber
folks tell you. you can't
call yourself an Uber
taxi. because you
have a flat bed truck
you have to call yourself
goober.