A purple dome descends upon our house as
my dad steps out of his 1987 Chevy Cavalier.
Its dashboard bell pings five times
and the garage door shudders. Dad finishes his smoke

as he steps out of a 1987 Chevy Cavalier.
The door shudders down to the concrete.
He stubs out his cigarette on the garage floor.
Inside, blaring sitcom laughter. Full House. Happy Days.

The door settles in place at the track’s end.
We’re each in different rooms, on the carpets
with the loud sitcoms on every TV.
At the stove, in a mirror, trailing a phone cord

against the carpet, each in a separate room.
Night Court. Cheers. Family Ties.
The phone cord trails under the door.
When the bulb times out, he lights another cigarette.

Aaron Brame is the former senior poetry editor at the Pinch Journal. His work appears in or is forthcoming from Indianapolis Review, Heron Tree, Lumina, and Tupelo Quarterly. He lives and works in Memphis, Tennessee.

Find him on Twitter at @mr_brame.