by Travis Roberts
I shit or jerk off, whichever’s easier. I drink the coffee until it’s gone and empty the spent grounds into a small trash bin beneath the kitchen sink. I fill the back of the small coffee pot with bottled water, pat fresh grounds into the reusable filter.
I wash last night’s dishes. Plastic plates with old spaghetti, bowls with dried thousand island and bits of tomato and cucumber. I use either too much soap or not enough, but when it’s over, last night is clean and stacked inside the cupboard.
I collect the garbage from the bathroom and mix it with the garbage in the kitchen and when both are one and tied at the top I walk to the landing of the 9th floor elevator and blend ours with the rest.
Back in the apartment I listen to John Prine sing about friends and Washington, D.C. and all the times in the ’60s and ’70s when he was smiling and sad. I smoke a finger pinch of brown weed and laugh along with the crowd. It’s a live album.
I’m reminded that I need to fix the internet and find a job. Rent is due on the 12th and I am still not Bukowski or Miller or Thompson. This last part is underlined four times.
I do three sets of 20 push ups. Check the bathroom mirror to see if I’m still losing hair. I light a stick of incense, swallow fish oil and a daily multivitamin.
From the window above our bed I look downstairs. People are crossing the street and walking through doors and waving over taxis, looking down or ahead and stopping occasionally to talk about things. But now it’s 9 a.m. and I still haven’t swept the floor.