I wonder how you feel,
when you come home from work and
enter this hectic kitchen
full of children flinging stories and jokes
at one another -- squeals ricocheting
off the cupboards and walls
a barrage of voices too immediate and loud
for you-- under fire
And our enthusiasm sends you
into the living room, battered,
to sit for the rest of the night
in front of the three-channeled television.
Like the strange failure of waves from the
broadcasting networks to the flimsy
antennae of the tv,
your signals are never strong enough
to decipher. A little fuzzier as the night
goes on, until they are entirely scrambled.
You switch off and lock yourself behind a
bedroom door. One thought runs in my
head, already in syndication:
One day you will drop dead,
and I won’t know a
Goddamn thing about you.