Sit

by Marc Darnell

I bought a gray recliner, I've never even been in it—
it's for guests, and ghosts. I wonder if it's plusher
than the black, almost broken one, so ancient,
I'm sitting in right now, I'll never know. I'd rather

see the television from this angle, imagine someone
lives with me, but they're always in the kitchen,
at the store, the movies, or went to bed at ten.
I don't remember my father having a place to recline,

to call his own. We five hogged the furniture,
the food, the TV set—we stomped out silence before
he ever came home from a double shift. This recliner
can be his, a laid-back memorial, softer

than a tombstone, an homage to all dads who yielded
in their fatigue to wild brats who should be in bed.