There's only one TV, an old Philcothe size of furniture, circa nineteen fifty-six,that's why it's hell.
Blueberries roll over the fields, the terracedhills, and plumeria--the kind they call icedlavender, the kind called cotton candy--
and Cypress lean along the horizon as ifscripted by the wind. Beyond the mistshe glimpses majestic shapes resembling
purple mountains, though he can't recallwhere he heard that phrase, majesties....?Where's all the real estate?
Where is his golden name? Horrorlands on him like the weight of allhis lies, each one half an ounce (do
the math)--he can't remember his name.And he's hungry!Vines burst with offerings, and trees
drop every dreamed-of deepand ripened fruit. In such colors!And this time not one is forbidden.
Where are his hamburgers and fries,his steak? His red meats?! I'm in hell,he cries, and for once he's not lying.
He tries to settle his girth in the narrowplastic armchair perched near the TV.On the small screen housewives in high
necked collars praise the heaven of Sunbeamelectric fry pans, cake mix and Nestle Quik.The programming's stuck forever
in the age when American was Great.
And now the stations start shutting downfor the night. Now they're gone. And
now the small screen fillswith snow. Then fills with flame.
Suzanne Lummis' poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Ploughshares & The Hudson Review. Her latest collection is Crime Wave. She has edited various anthologies, including Stand Up Poetry and Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond. She is also the recipient of George Drury Smith Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.
