"There Goes the TV" by Damian Rucci
I like to hurl my fists
at drywalls like paper mache
targets and watch them crumble
into dust and bits
you could be a quarterback
and when the night goes too long
the landlord is pounding on
the broken screen door
and we’re drowning in utility bills
you throw bombs that could
make it to the endzone
paper towel rolls, cans of chef boyardee
Tom Brady doesn’t have shit on you
we made deals, no more holes
in the walls no more projectiles
no more cries, no more broken hearts
but we’re stuck in this
they never told us trying to live
would be so hard
no one told us you die
just to keep the lights on
and then we’re at it again
treaties broken, bungalow shaking
a lone energy drink flies past my shoulder
doesn’t find a wide-receiver at 20 yards
but the flat screen TV we saved up for
the screen recoils in a blue flash
and shatters. You cry. I pull the can
out from the hole, wipe off the fiberglass
and pop the cap
“There goes the TV”
and we both fall to the floor
breathing heavy and hollow
both deciding it’s time for sleep
both deciding reality is too much
for us right now