You asked me what I remembered: sitting
on our couch on a work day, sipping
spirits and watching TV. They were playing
it again and again and the anchors said
nothing. I fiddled with the volume and still nothing.
I gave up and watched it through static; words
might make it seem true. You wouldn't watch
because you were busy with the phone. Later
I was running with the terrier and not
one person was on the street. I could see the glare
from the TVs as windows came and went but
nobody moved or said anything. The dog wouldn't
bark, not even at the mailman. He whimpered
and rolled on the ground. The mails were
only coupons and catalogs and I actually looked
through them. I remember raking leaves as you hung
out the clothes to dry. There's no sun today, I said.
You looked at me like I was mad and even
I didn't say anything.

 

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