Lapidato

You’re stoned again. No jogging today.
You’ll fossilize pining on the couch
watching Let’s Make A Deal or The Price Is Right.
They feel as real as anything else, you claim.

A frosted bulb blazes overhead; you never
thought to dress things up after your wife
split and stripped the joint of anything
cool or aesthetically pleasing. Thus
you live this way, stoned all day
in sweaty sweats and dust and shades.

You welcome the coffee and donuts
from Timmy’s for breakfast with a yellow
smile; you don’t want to be a champion.
None of that matters anymore, the striving.
I ask the last time you’ve been outside
and your smiling pains me. Don’t know
what I can say to make a difference.
Don’t know if difference is what you want.

We sip our coffee; the donuts go quick.
I’ll try to remember these details
when I’ve stopped knowing you or when
you go your own way in this life.

You ask if I want to smoke something;
too early for me, man. I need to get
shit done today. I’d love to sit around
and share doing nothing—that’s a lie.
I despair sitting with you at this moment.
Don’t want to be here anymore.
Don’t want to say goodbye to you,
but I can’t be in your presence.

You pass out moments later, in the middle
of a rough draft of an idea you were sharing,
white ash crumbling from the lit green blunt
between your fingers to the floor rug.
Maybe it’s mean of me, but I leave you there
sleeping dreamlessly, floating aimlessly,
in so deep no lifeline would be long enough.