As I’m sitting
on the living room sofa,
eating a bowl
of fish and rice,
my other roommate
passes through
on his way to the kitchen,
asks “What’s up?”

“Not much” I say
as I watch him wobble
through the room
on skinny legs
in his bathrobe
at noon on a Saturday.

The fridge door squeaks open,
he’s in there a minute or so,
then he wobbles back through
empty handed,
goes into his room,
and shuts the door.

After I finish eating,
I wash my bowl,
open the fridge and count:
six beers left in his twelve pack.

There were nine in there
just a few minutes ago.
How...? Did he have them
shoved up his ***?
Maybe that robe has pockets...

I’m going on ten months
as a teetotaler,
and that *******
cardboard box
is always sitting there,
shiny cans winking at me
as I grab an apple
or a piece of leftover chicken.

I hope this doesn’t turn into
another one of those days
where he crashes face first
into the coffee table,
and I pick him up off the floor
and guide him to bed
as his nose drips blood
on the carpet,
and on me.