"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