Steam Engine

When the television goes to commercial

my daughter sets off a wailing

as though what pressure is involved

in keeping her sane is suddenly

hit a critical level. My face goes red

like a cartoon, the containment valve

inside my noggin tipping down

to red ticks, wobbling some final seconds

of warning, my eyelid twitches

as a fog screens what concentration

I had, blurring out the titles of books,

the reflection on the windows, the trees

outside into one interminable haze,

until I am locomotived, a chug of wheels

lurching me toward a new America,

I take one step, exhale, then another,

to the wall where I yank the plug

and collect the tv in my arms

cradled silently, imploring. I

bustle it out to the shed where it

malingers still, rotting among

the buffalo carcasses of a happy homelife.