When the sun goes down on the neighborhood
and all the trash cans have been wheeled back from the curb,
the dog dozes in her crate, wife in bed with her book,

I’ll stand in front of the fridge, door open,
looking for something that appeals, 
perhaps a yogurt, or handful of granola,

oh, leftover turkey tetrazzini, heated
in the microwave, the crusty parts coming
out harder still, and consider a parallel life

where I am snorting illicit substances
off the stomachs of wanton women,
driving with the top down to some rager of a house party, 

the cops called because of the noise,
me getting too aggressive in telling them to buzz off,
spending a long night and day in the pokey,

Lulu bailing me out and giving me the business
for being so hard-headed stupid
and when am I gonna grow up and get a real job

and a mortgage and health insurance
and, you know, live a normal life like a normal person
and then she stops talking to see if any of what

she said is sinking in, but my head is throbbing 
and my foot is twitching that twitch
of wanting to up and run, I tell her to 

pull into Tiny’s for a whiskey and she shakes her head,
makes a sigh of disgust, but I know she loves me, 
my angel, my Lulu, always coming to my rescue,

and then I think maybe, considering my cholesterol and all,
I best stick to a bowl of good old Cheerios.