Tonight, I wait for a man I don’t care to name
to send me an email I don’t care to read.
Somewhere along this timeline, the phone rings
and I neglect to answer it, because what if it’s him again
trying to feed me another USDA-declined beef stock story
about how his laptop keeps powering down prematurely,
not unlike his marriage to a woman who, I’m next to certain,
doesn't care to read his emails either?
Woe is him.
I’m not waiting another night, and evidently,
neither is she.

Carbon copy wolves approach a baby in a carriage,
ripping checks from checkbooks, checking
stock quotes, let me rock those Dockers for a day,
and pay me garbage cash to clean your pool.
I'd never let my money turn me into you, you
conquered bastion of a man, you broken pipeline
leaking seltzer water laugh tracks on repeat.
I seat myself behind your mother as we watch you
hate the world you pay to **** and juggle clients
for applause. I hope you dig your own memorial
with dollars that you stole, and make a million
off the tears that come to decorate the ground
around your feet.

Because no matter how you frame it, you're
a picture of "the worst is yet to come,"
and if you're lucky, maybe God (or some
divine eternal something) will forgive you for
the things you'll learn in time to cold regret.

But maybe not, and maybe greed will end you yet.