The Television Awoken by Remote Like a Crying Child

Sitting on the flat end of this rock
with the erosion of everything
in a field littered with plastic food containers
and torn bags of rotting garbage
scattered about as the bones of burial sites
become in the presence of scavengers,
the hydro lines above humming out the pablum
of spent lightbulbs
ovens with Sylvia Plath cooking in them
the television awoken by remote
like a crying child,
and the onion peel stuck to the bottom of my shoe
will not leave me
it seems we are married and catholic
and doomed to spend eternity together,
I rub my shoe against the rock face
but only some paint comes off;
it would be reasonable to be waiting for someone
to be walking a dog named Davis
that spends its days chasing its own ass
into the nether regions
to have a woman waiting on you somewhere
like a cab in the street
it would be reasonable to consult a metallic wristwatch
if you had one,
that would be a most reasonable thing
to do.