The bedroom door's locked and the key got dropped
down the garbage disposal.
Backed up to the door is a recliner (in name only)
facing a portable black and white television
sitting on a dinner tray, its power cable snaking
across the rut-worn carpet to a power strip
with nothing else plugged into it but an electric fan.
There are bags of popcorn and juice boxes
and an ashtray, and unopened packages of socks
just within reach for when his caseworker visits.
When his mother calls he tells her that Laverne and Shirley say "Hi,"
and she laughs, and chides him for not visiting her,
and asks him how he's doing working from home.
"It's a living," he says, lighting a cigarette before slipping another pop tart under the door.