After the beach
gimme a good western
like Tombstone
to fall asleep to.
Something with
bad men,
clean motives,
and a gun
that always works.
I dream of making
stuffed bell peppers
in a naturally well-lit kitchen.
Not a penthouse.
Just counter space,
a sharp knife,
and enough energy
to stand until dinner.
I have nothing to offer
right now
except pain.
It isn't noble.
It doesn't make me
interesting.
It just hurts.
I went to get gas
and had to come home
and rest for two hours.
There was a time
I would've called that
a waste of a day.
Now I call it
the day.
I used to hate naps.
Now I take them
with a heating pad
pressed against my back,
like some washed-up outlaw
who finally figured out
the hardest part
of being a bad guy
is getting old enough
to need a classic ugly recliner.