What Good Am I?

What the hell can I do?
I haven't done a whole lot
of anything,
really.
People are dying senselessly
at the hands of others
directly and indirectly
and I sat on my ass
behind a microphone for 12 years
once a week
then every other week
as Indian time
disappeared from the airwaves
then I disappeared from the airwaves
my jaws a flappin'
and more people dyin' senselessly
at the hands of others
directly and indirectly.
What the hell good am I
as my skin stretches in a willow hoop
across the ribs of a lampshade
my scrotum stretches as a man pulls tobacco
from my former ballsack
and what the hell good am I?

The old lady
pushes her walker slowly
until she stands in front of me
hunched over from years of life,
silent from years of talking.
She communicates by pointing her
index finger, now,
and now she points at my belly
as she requests my attention.
"What do you need?" I ask
She reaches forward,
pokes my belly,
then pokes again,
and then again
until I laugh.
Then she starts pinching my belly
and I laugh harder.
I lean down and she leans up
until our eyes meet.
"Are you trying to tickle me?"
She nods joyfully
with a smile on her face.

My favorite thing to do
to relax
after work
is to wrastle my wife to the sofa
and rub her feet.

...I usually don't have to wrastle her...
OK, I don't have to wrastle her at all.
But when we wrastle...
there are no losers.