Your sweaty-socked feet dangle over the lazy-Boy,
the tv a constant blare of video and comics,
notebooks and popcorn bowl scattered about,
so much tween-age detritus.
Please, take out the garbage.
Bart Simpson mocks Homer, then whizzes off
on a cartoon bicycle. A low grunt erupts from
behind the armchair, your foot swings back and forth.
The garbage. Now, please.
You reach for the phone, half ring; your voice
sounds an octave lower even as you crank back
the armchair, prostate to afternoon sun seeping
through the neglected jade and philodendron.
Son. Take out the garbage. Now.
A disgruntled sigh, the phone clatters on the endtable
beside the glass sweating cola rings on veneer.
FINAL WARNING – TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE!
The volume ratchets up, closing credits reel by,
arms and legs disappear behind the safety of corduroy.
A microsecond of silence.
Please, son, would you take out the garbage?
Prompt: 5 times