I Don't Have Time To Write This Poem
(and you don't have time to read it)

So look around and get up 
off the goddamn sofa of the earth
and pick up a mop and bucket
and clean up this place, because
there's no beer in the refrigerator,
the t.v.'s on test pattern,
and it doesn't matter about screaming
and yelling to "Throw the bums out!"
because they can't hear you,
and your wife's to-do list ain't
never gonna get done, and
lady gaga has gone to the store 
for more makup
                                                  (and won't be back for half-a-century.)

You already know those guys running
back and forth, up the field and down the field
and knocking each other over in-between,
will never get further than those funny H's
at either end, so what's the point of Superbowl
anyway, when everything interesting is on the outside?
and you don't read Roman numerals anyway,
and the plums were already delicious.

You don't need heart, you don't need a strategy
and there is no tomorrow like tomorrow
which is going to be the same fucking same
as it is today, and if you don't know that
by now, then there is no tomorrow 
and you don't need one any more
than I need a doctor to tell me 
to stop smoking because 
there is no remote control, either,
and if there was, the batteries are dead
and I won't live long enough to see
how it all comes out, even if I stop
dragging my ass and get up off this
sofa of an off-my-meds brain that I'm living in
(and, clean that up too, while you're at it)
and just go do the damn to-do list
before she's gone and the to-do list is gone
and I'm gone, and you're gone,
and there is no today either,
and the plums were delicious.