you wearing the sunglasses
of a total asshole, me looking
to get past you, and the excuses
almost sing themselves, louder
than the radio preacher confounding
himself, clearer than rain because
of course it’s raining when we
reach our hotelroom, where the TV
stands on metal legs and holds
your attention, while I live again
for the darkness between
commercials, the opposite
of flicker, whatever that’s called.
brief, black, quiet. the set regretting
everything it saw and repeated,
everything it never said, but unable
to reckon with more than a second
here and there. otherwise: noise
and flash and counterfeit
satisfaction. and your stare.
