You're my bartender, and I wrote this poem for you

Crag rag,
Tap tamper,
Foam spray ray—

Burn a dollar,
Tip a dollar—
San Francisco Bay Guardian.

(I don't read it.
It's free, and the only copies I touch
Are the ones that get thrown to my outdoor staircase.
I've touched them all to get them out of my way. I've thrown them all away.)

Shark-fin bubble gum and pudding in a pout—
Choco-tremble, brain a thimble,
I've wanted to tell you how when I call my wife, the first thing I often hear is screaming.

My son watches videos on my wife's phone, and my casual phone calls interrupt his entertainment.

Is there any precedent for this?
For an invention that makes your son cry when you reach for your wife?

(Sure there is: the precedent is life.
Life was the first invention that makes your son cry when you reach for your wife.
What is the precedent for life?)

Any remark about the technological infliction of pain is, at root, an affirmation of life.

There is a wife.
(Or: there was a wife.)

There is a child.
(Or: there was a child.)

There is time to remark.
(Or: there was time to remark.)

Maybe I'll do a little jig right now. I've thrown in some rhymes. It's not all bad, ever. It's never all bad. Any claim to the contrary is a sloppy lie.