After ten and one half hours of work
and an hour each way on the freeway
I crawl into a white-trash apartment
and I lie on the floor and listen to
my drunken wife explain to me that she
isn’t drunk because she only had two
and one half beers and two bong hits
but she thinks it might be affecting
her because of the antidepressants
she has recently started taking to help
her out of the pit of despair that she
spends most of her time wallowing in.
And I try to explain that she’s slurring
her words and she tries to explain that
she knows she is slurring her words but
she only had two and one half beers and
two bong hits and that she thinks it must be
the antidepressants as she takes another pull on
her Lucky Lager and lights another cigarette
and I lie on the floor and listen to the sounds.
