— Jerry Dyer

He drove a coca-cola truck
for 30 years, and into
the living room every night.
He sat in the circle of the TV’s light,
and rubbed fat knuckles
over “Stan” stenciled in red thread
in an oval on his chest. The chair
enfolded his heavy hams, and warmed up
as the light drained away from his eyes.

The wife often interrupted wrestling
to put food on the table.
She asked: How was your day?
He chewed and swallowed,
but gave nothing back.
Her days went unasked,
draining one by one,
thick, translucent, unredeemed
containers of unopened life.

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