Sam, 65, Retired

You wake up at 6am
You go back to sleep
You try, you try
You try to sleep
You get up
You go into the kitchen
You check the mailbox

No mail
Not yet
The mail comes later
Why so late?
You could use mail now

Mail to read
Mail to sort
Mail to go over

You make yourself two runny eggs
You dip toast in them
You munch
You clean the plate with the toast
You rinse the plate
You go back to bed

You try to sleep
You try
Your wife can sleep
You can't
You can't sleep
You get up

You ran a hardware store
For thirty years

You sold tools
You made friends
You had customers
You had friends
You talked shop
You talked about screws
You talked about wrenches
You talked about building things

But you never did build anything yourself
Except a tree house and a tool shed
And the tool shed fell apart
During last year's snow storm

You retired
You've been retired
For three months

You are waiting to die
People say 'No'

They say life is just beginning
They say enjoy yourself
They say take a cruise
They say it's one big vacation
They say catch up on your reading

You want to tell them
To go fuck themselves
But you don't

Your kids give you suggestions
Suggest hobbies and travel spots
And things you can do with yourself
While you wait to die

You watch bad television
You watch game shows
You watch cooking shows while eating bratwurst
And drinking warm beer

You mow the lawn
You water the lawn
You look at the lawn
You hate the lawn
You cater to the lawn

You go to Tate's Hardware
Your old competition
The guy that you still think put you out of business
Even though you retired
Even though it was time
Even though you're sixty-five
Even though your wife begged
After the heart attack

You still hate fucking Tate
And his lousy fucking screws
That fall apart so you have to buy more

Is that how this schmuck stays in business?

'Hey Tate'
'Hey Sam'
'I need more screws.'
'They're on sale.'
'I bet they are'

Tate's seventy-three and still going
Son-of-a-bitch

No wife
That's why
No kids
That's why
No doctors telling him to slow down
That's why

You come home
You read the paper
You scan the paper
You look at the paper
You hate the paper

Dinner is made
Lunch is made
Breakfast is made

Meals, and meals, and miles of meals
Markers to mark the days
The days until you die

A few weddings
Some births
Birthdays
Grandkids
Christmas
Then
Death

Yay

What a fucking life

Thirty years and nothing
Thirty years and you wasted it
Wasted it all
Providing for your family

Your family which now includes a son
Who runs a strip club two towns over
And a daughter who married a missionary
And took off to Africa

And your wife
Your wife
Suffering wife

Suffering more than you

You get into bed at night
You say--

'Lizzie?'
'Yeah?'
'You love me?'
'No.'
'Fine.'

You roll over
You shut your eyes
You feel her hands
Those sturdy hands
Slide around your shoulders
And down across your chest

She says--

'I'm glad you're home'

Then--

'I missed you'

And you know she doesn't just mean today

And you reach your hands
Up to her hands
And you play with the ring
She still wears in her sleep
Even all these years later
Rusty and brown

And you ask her--

'So what do you want to do tomorrow?'

And she says--

'Nothin''

And that's fine
That's just fine