I can hear the television blaring
and I just want silence
or chaos
or maybe
just a cup of coffee;
the kind you'd tell me
to go make a fresh pot of
when I would drop by,
without knocking, and
without an invitation
to sit in that chair,
the one with the not-hardly
but probably-once-was
tan fabric
worn on the sides
from how I'd sit:
comfortably, but not how I ought to,
you'd say.

We'd watch television
for hours on end—
that is, when we would
actually break from chit-chat
to pay attention to
all those dumb shows
with people
far worse off than you or me.

Watching television there,
in that chair
across from you,
made my going home
seem something less like
grieving.