Sometimes it hurts

Sometimes it hurts
by Cameron Dawson
The gravel in the driveway crunches
3:57 the stairs creak under boots
heels with traces of asphalt
after a shower the TV turns on
Sports Center, Jerry Springer, whatever
you slide out your bedroom door to
grab something from the fridge
he’s on the couch
flipping pages with calloused hands
the TV remote rests on a mountain of flesh
rising and falling with sonorous breaths
beyond serried shelves
of beer, ketchup, milk
the fridge door like a theatre curtain—
then it closes
and your left naked
stranded in the kitchen light,
“how was your day?” you ask
the newspaper lowers
nominally,
sun-soaked eyes
half there:
“the same as yesterday” he says,
as the sound of
receding feet is
obscured by
unfamiliar voices.