Portside

There's only one TV, an old Philco
the size of furniture, circa nineteen fifty-six,
that's why it's hell.

Blueberries roll over the fields, the terraced
hills, and plumeria--the kind they call iced
lavender, the kind called cotton candy--

and Cypress lean along the horizon as if
scripted by the wind. Beyond the mists
he glimpses majestic shapes resembling

purple mountains, though he can't recall
where he heard that phrase, majesties....?
Where's all the real estate?

Where is his golden name? Horror
lands on him like the weight of all
his 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 deep
and 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 narrow
plastic armchair perched near the TV.
On the small screen housewives in high

necked collars praise the heaven of Sunbeam
electric 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 down
for the night. Now they're gone. And

now the small screen fills
with 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.