Watching the News on Mute While Eating Cheetos

Every goddamned day, it’s the same thing:
some blowhard who looks like Josef Stalin
sitting there, trying to tell me what to do.
Meanwhile, my fingers are turning orange
and I’m smudging up my old issues of Cosmo,
which I always donate to the prison library
once I’m done. I figure those prisoners
should be happy to get any magazines at all,
and the cheese dust won’t disrupt their view
of all that self-tanned cleavage. But what
do I know? Maybe there’s something wrong
if this is how I spend my freedom — sitting
at my kitchen table, watching TV, watching
the sky turn from dishwater to oil, sometimes
back to dishwater again, two or three times.

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