You sit in daytime,
cross-legged on the floor
just inches away from the turned on tv.
In pajamas
one hand plays with a big toe,
the other thrust inside a box of Sugar Pops.
Sound from the speaker,
picture on the screen,
all yours, embracing.

Dad leaves for work,
bends down to kiss you unseen
as you sit, still.
“Not so close,”
Mom says, now and then,
unheard
against the bright colors,
cartoon sounds,
and sales pitches.
Nothing can summon you away,
daytime safe.

Night.
Almost asleep when Mom comes.
She takes your hand,
you rub your eyes
as she leads you to their bed.
“Dad won’t be home again,”
she says as she lays you in his place,
turned, facing the big dresser mirror.
Thumb in mouth
you watch her robe fall,
she gets into bed,
tucks a pillow between her legs,
takes your hand to hold,
thumb wet with sucking.
You can’t change the channel
or turn it off.
It’s all right there
in the wooden frame,
bigger than any tv screen,
but you’re not pulled in,
awareness remains.
Alert,
you hear every sound
capture every moment
while she holds onto your hand
and says that she loves you.

Copyright 2016 by Art Metzger. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.