The ether of television where everything is epic,
rain showers, the reemergence of Elizabeth Shue,
filters into my work space between the books.
I understand his need for distraction, treed tabby
not his problem, not his those wolves at the door.
TV white noise covered my mother sobbing over
the dishwasher, dad downstairs, under the hood
of his car, or asleep in the black Eames lounger
that meant we were middle class but didn't
care about the Joneses who had a new boat
my mother would never possess. She could feel
her life slipping further into the black well of
the disposal. I lay on my bed or sat at my
homework cardtable copying out the world's
neatest geometry homework, my brothers and
sister at the foot of the TV, my door locked.
Television drone I prime my engine, zip flak
suit, in the air, gone. It turns itself on now in
the afternoon billowing heavy as DDT cloud.