“But can it core an apple?” Norton asks Kramden,
another get-rich-quick scheme of theirs
gone awry. This time they peddle knives
on TV, as if they could ever sell enough
to get Norton out of the sewer, Ralph
off his bus route. This late at night,
almost nothing’s on but reruns—
Lucy bawling after Ricky, The Odd Couple
clashing, Spock and Captain Kirk
on the flimsy set of the Enterprise.
In his room, my father snores gently,
asleep despite the TV’s glare, its volume.
He’s even got the radio on—classical—
I don’t know how he sleeps.
Awake, I stir at small sounds—
wind in the eaves, mice skittering
between walls and floorboards.
If I turn off his set, he’ll wake, protest,
say he was watching whatever was on.
So I lie in bed in a house
where four broken sets haven’t been thrown away.
One black and white set belonged
to my grandmother, a woman pale enough
to pass, miserable unless she watched
Lawrence Welk—the old couples
dancing wanly in crepe and polyester,
the chipper cast singing show tunes.
The only black man on it
dances a happy soft shoe, lithe.
When my father wakes, he’ll rise, shower,
run his hand over stubble, razor bumps,
a few clumps of hair in the sink.
He’ll put on a suit, a dark one, tie
and cufflinks, spend days trying
to sell what he’s got going—plots
of Florida land, local real estate,
specially imprinted business cards.
As he dresses, game show hosts give away
money for the one right answer, and
my father has it, laughing at greedy contestants
on shows where the answers are simple enough
anyone might win, light up the scoreboard
for a second, that fraction of time
it takes to hit the buzzer.
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