I squeeze a lime wedge over ice, top with seltzer, pause as I realize
I’ve achieved millennial Gold Status.
I expect my Peloton trial bike to arrive this week via expedited freight;
at which point, I'll trade jobs with the driver,
join the gig economy triple full-time.

There’s no alcohol because I’m not drinking this month.
Except for that bottle of wine on Monday
& those beers with Brandon yesterday
because we needed to get together to talk about his father’s first week of chemo
and we ain’t doin that shit sober.

I’m not worried about becoming an alcoholic
specifically. I didn’t even take all my Percocet after surgery
but still have that half dozen because it’s comforting to know I can break

the day into its constituent parts to dissolve on my tongue.
I keep repeating the same mistakes
but I’m not dead yet and my ass looks pretty good
so I’m gonna keep drinking my anger into the more abstract
loneliness of American men every few days
wearing slim stretch jeans and contributing to my HSA.

If the next blood clot hits my brain, my godson gets everything
and all my friends know to pull the plug and play
Purple Rain while they lock arms
around the bright upcycle
of my burning body.