Jimmy Carter looked green
as he delivered his last state
of the union. Of course, everyone
did on the old Magnavox for ten
minutes or so. My parents turned
it on well advance of the buyer
who had called in response
to the Thrifty Nickel ad. It takes
a few minutes to get going, my dad
said. Don’t we all? the man replied,
broken vessels on his nose, a map
that led nowhere. My mother forced
a smile and offered coffee. I’ll take it,
the man said. And the coffee too.
Jimmy spoke of malaise a crisis
of confidence as my dad unplugged
him and offered to load the television
into the man’s car. My mom looked
relieved. We needed the money. We
always did. Thank you. That guy
depresses me, the man said. Tell me
something I don’t know, Jimmy. His hands
shook when he picked up the mug.
Hell, no matter who you pick, they’re
all disappointing, the man said, once
the bloom is off the rose. He swilled
the last of his coffee like it was medicine,
the kind you forced yourself to take even
though it didn’t work so well anymore.
Michelle Brooks has published a collection of poetry, Make Yourself Small, (Backwaters Press), and a novella, Dead Girl, Live Boy, (Storylandia Press). A native Texan, she has spent much of her adult life in Detroit, her favorite city.
