He was resting heavy in his armchair
and we were watching
the grain of the television,
a laugh track chattering
I stared at him sideways for a while
realizing he was
different that night.
Not angry drunk like the night before
When he put his fist through the wall
beside my mother,
but sad drunk. I could see
his thoughts transforming into words.
"You hear that one loud laugh in the audience?"
He slurred. "That one you can hear,
above all the others?
It always sounds just like your mother's."
He was right. I could hear her too,
as startling as a fist
bursting through the wall and as striking
as broken bottle sparkling on the kitchen floor.