As though Newsweek will never ask
me to subscribe again and I will be left
pitiful and crying on my living room floor
with nothing authoritative to read and
pictures of Hillary and Barack and John
will be absent from my coffee table that
is homemade and already leaning slightly
to one side but still my life will have no
color or substance or direction which will
lead me to substance abuse and neglect
of my children.
We’ve been down this road before.
You know where to find me.
It’s the house behind the chipped blue
mailbox that no one has bothered
to affix a name or number to.