I figure there are better things to do than scroll.

It’s 6:16. The room is blue, the cat is up,

and rain is ringing the fire escape.

I went out last night, having dreaded the obligation

but known that, once I hooked my heels over 

the barstool footrest, I’d relax. Smile real.

But all that comes to mind right now is work:

Sunday prep and Monday flurry, 

plans wasted, yet crucial for the improv—

your twelve-hour set, not so bad given the Keurig

and the illusion of balance. We have Kind bars.

Then the acronyms, deliverables,

the multitude of spreadsheets, and the migraine,

and the clicking hips from standing all day, 

a horse in tack, 

standing on standby for the tug.

Bloody ankles—still sore— 

and finding home in a bathroom stall. I’ll scroll.

Tell me there are better things. I dare you.

---

Get up. Start the coffeemaker. Shake 

the sleepseal from your eyes and pretend to care.

---

Call mom and inquire after the golf bracket.