Muted

In the twilight zone of our muted television,
we cling to a dinner of boneless chicken thighs,
red skinned potatoes, and fresh green beans.
You tell me about the broken transom line at
the job, how it almost caused Taper Dave to fall
from his ladder, mud pan in hand, and crash
through your client's magnificent picture window
(with its zillion dollar view of the Golden Gate
Bridge). But Taper Dave held on, kept his balance
despite the weight of his sizeable belly, and all
remained intact.

Then I tell you about my typical day of working
at home, my laptop now an integral part of these
ever-widening thighs. I've become a paper-pusher,
resigned to dealing with the eternal whine of repetition
and routine. I don't even need to embroider my story
with the gory details; you've heard them all
so many times before.

I've muted the television so that we can sit together
and eat, free from the roar that arrives each day
through the wires and the waves, bearing the jargon
(softened by scenes of sylvan meadows) dispensed
by pharmaceutical marketeers who sweetly warn us
of all foreseeable side-effects (cancers, suicides,
heart attacks). They bring us the news (rarely if ever
new) of a world that is more than we can handle,
juggle or endure, although we try.

Unknown to us, a close friend's spouse has today
made the choice – perhaps is making it even as we test
each bite in our evening quest for tenderness and solace
– to be taken off his ventilator tomorrow, to acquiesce
to the demands of his fed-up flesh. But we will not learn
of this heroic exit until four full days from now, after
he has already bowed and left the stage. I remember
to tell you that I tried a new recipe for the chicken
we're savoring. I used numerous, thunderous shakes of
Mrs. Dash, that old-fashioned blend of dependable
spices combined with scattered showers of lemon-pepper
and onion powder. I added butter and onions, too,
then wrapped it all in a silvery missile of foil. I
wanted you, as I prepared this meal, to know how
much I still love you, from the depths of my boredom
and the bottom of my beleaguered soul. I wanted
you to feel how I kneel in thanks, day in and
day out, before our dowdy brown evenings
spent (perhaps too often, but even so)
in the glow of Samsung's forty-two-inch screen.