When I get there, she’s already
on the couch under an electric blanket,
propped on six pillows. The velour
cushions are slick with sweat.
The lights are off
and they are to stay off.
She watches TV and, in a hushed
aside, without ever looking at me,
tells me that she’s done it.
He’s at the bar with buddies.
“Maybe it’s his way of
coping,” she says.
Her voice is a piccolo,
eyes drip casually
and occasionally as she asks
me about work. I am tending
her shop until she returns
next Monday.
And on the TV, a sitcom
fades and is replaced
at a sudden and abusive volume
by a Gerber commercial
for something enriched
and strained. We’re both
silent, reverent, unblinking
until it’s over and a used
car salesman flouts the virtues
of “New To You.” We don’t change
the channel, don’t address
the situation, don’t even breathe.
She cries until she vomits
into an empty donut box
I hold out for her,
then asks how
sales look for the week.
(2003)
