-Your Show of Shows-

everything appears to be

functioning normally.

the dishes are washed

and the rung-out dishrag's draped

over the faucet to dry-out.
the interior lamps are lit

casting light to a bronzed patina

the way Rembrandt liked it. 

the cat’s in its mode of discovery

walking to an empty bedroom doorway,

stopping in its tracks,
staring into the empty darkness
as if it senses something going on.

my father’s in the living room

standing at the blank-faced television

rolling-up the sleeves of the white

dress shirt he wore to work.

he’s the man of this house

and the Lucky Strike pressed

between his lips is there to prove it.

L.S.M.F.T., my brothers and sisters.

there’s a moment in time when time

seems to be suspended at this ancient house

when the oldman squats at the screen
and the family knows that when the dial

is turned to its on position everything could go wrong.

It’s droning like a dozen hornets.

the snow builds in intensity

the way the Big Bang aficionado likes it,
and shadows of substance appear like phantoms
within the phosphorescence.

Odilon Redon comes to mind.
we can hear them laughing behind the cathode ray tube.

another adjustment to the roll of his sleeves,
another drag of hot smoke sinking deeply into his lungs

biding their time before the diagnosis.

and then—

the horizontal goes crazy,
ignorant of its place the horizon.

the vertical twists with the tortured inaccuracy
of an amusement park's funhouse mirror.

it's all about recurring anticipation in the house

with the squatting Zenith. 

but—with his fingertips adjusting
as sure, as swift as with a surgeon's touch,
the oldman makes his move just the way we like it.

                                             c.1954