Jacked In
His clothes lie in a pile on
the floor; he ignores the smell.
His clock is set seven
minutes ahead but he never arrives early.
His bed is unmade, cotton
sheets and suede comforter piled at the foot.
His nightstand is just a
place to gather dust and loose change.
His phone jack is empty, but
the outlet next to it sprouts thick, black cables.
His life is consumed by
delivery pizza and World of Warcraft.
His work is a means to an end
and another forty hours a week at a computer.
His tie is a clip-on provided
by the sister who still tries to talk to him.
His fridge contains ketchup,
parmesan packets, and beer.
His friends don’t exist
unless they are logged on.
His chair’s hard touch is the
only physical embrace he encounters.
