i imagine you working
a long, stupid shift. probably bartending,
probably serving drunk tourists—white matter old men
with a vengeance, and they’re all drooling,
piss smelling red faced.
i’m laughing hard you can’t hear it,
and well anyway,
we score and we score again.
i don’t watch sports,
i feel it’s propaganda
brain rot radiating tv static,
read the statistics. 
but on occasion i do enjoy picturing you, and you’re still so dreadful and annoyed.