Because there is no point to life, because the universe is but
An infinite expanse of space in which things move in countless
Ways, because the truth cannot be known by such as us, such
Minute things, whose lives, if you so label them, are nothing
More than place-specific, odd, yet unimportant movements,
I decline to justify what I have done today. I went to work,
And emptied boxes filled with loathsome-sounding snacks,
Which flabby gluttons like to eat. I cleaned my smoker. What
A mess. I emptied out the dishwasher, and wiped away
The splattered diarrhea marks someone had left upon
The half-bath's toilet seat. I called my mom because I felt
I ought to because she's my mom, but I don't like her very
Much, and, since she's old, inert, and dull, I'm never pleased
To speak with her. She croaked that she had gotten sick,
And didn't want to talk to me. Hesitating not a second, I
Hung up, and, now, I'm here, a useless thing, a process,
Really, playing out, upon my porch, an undistinguished
Stretch of space. From here, I slouch. I drink, and pledge
I won't be justified.