Two Channel by Tom Offland

Sometimes Joan sits and watches television. Its sound turned off, its glass screen blinking like a broken lamp. Who could say what she's thinking?

I could reach out my hand, ask her, say, Joan what are you thinking, but it would be like reaching my hand into the sunlight. It would be like talking at the television.

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172     for the server at the Blue Danube
Dim warmth, it takes
comfort food thrown
at your table

burning each other up as we ram into those orbits,
thankful that inertia lets us pretend
we’re such a “big deal,” speaking in metaphors
because euphemism is too direct, direct because
we’re making a show of hiding something
and
saying what it is that we’re hiding by way of negation.

And WHOOSH! Every time one goes by
I say this, and trace its afterimage
with my finger. I want the world to know
the universe is burning up
around us.

Trust fund, trust fund! What egg
un-nested, what fun, rusted plaque
and all. A stolen glance at legs
or cheat of a creamy back -
a short dress with hope at hem, delirious.