Guess what?

Today, I didn't find the cure for cancer.
I didn't stay faithful to my wife. I didn't
call up my father and tell
him Happy Birthday. I didn't
bother to feed my goldfish.

Instead, I stayed in bed all day
and texted men and women
and anyone just as lonely as I am.

I didn't bother to separate the whites
from darks. I skipped breakfast;
had two large pizzas with
extra cheese delivered. And
you know what? I didn't tip.
I burped in the girl's face
told her it doesn't
get much better than this.
She smiled at me, turned
around and as she was walking towards
her vehicle, I whistled and said
Nice *** there, Sparky.

Then I was suddenly inspired to write
a poem about what I didn't do. And how
much I enjoyed being on the other side
of accomplishment, goal setting, and
your typical, modern bragging rights.

Today, I thought
being a sore on the mouth
of life was much more charming
than flaunting money. I thought
it best to be honest rather than
a sick, fat facade marching his ego
down the aisle; digging through the many
layers of the inferno.

If only mother could see me now.

She'd offer me one more cigarette
from her deathbed; make a racist joke;

hollar, hoot, and hack.

Then tell me she's proud of me.

And I'd shout, you bet your *** you are!

right back.