what's wrong with you?

what are you doing

she asks

me as i clip my nails

on the front porch.

i look up at her and say.

i'm clipping my nails.

look at them.

uneven and jagged.

no, she says. i mean

what are you doing 

with your life?

what's wrong with you?

i've never seen you like

this before. it's almost

like you don't care about

anything anymore.

what are you talking about.

i'm taking care of my

nails

and tomorrow i have work.

you don't have a dog,

or even a plant in your

house. you don't watch

the news, you don't read

the paper. you don't give

a damn about what's going

on in the world these days.

ouch. see what you made

me do, i suck the blood

off the tip of my finger.

i hold up my finger to show

her the dot of blood bubbling out.

this is your fault, i tell her.

you're better than this, she says,

you have potential to do

some great things.

but you just have to get up

off your butt and get to work

on them.  you're not a spring

chicken anymore.

i say the word chicken, hmmm,

then let out a long sigh. yeah,

you're right. you're right.

you're always right.

what about pizza tonight?

half pepperoni, half mushrooms?