i hung a forty pound t.v.
in the bedroom,
my wife’s and mine,
that is.
patrick is too young for
a t.v., just yet,
but not an ipad, or an xbox1,
apparently.
the t.v. wall mount should have
been able to hold
about a hundred and fifty
pounds, easy,
being forged iron,
or super duper stainless,
or thick-assed aluminum,
with joints and bolts
that looked like an airplane wing,
or a robot leg,
or a bridge girder,
or some such.
well, i took the boy,
who’s grampa
is a leo patrick,
whose momma
was a colleen kay,
whose gramma was
a welsh,
to the irish family tradition
to see the pipers at
the bar.
at least he wasn’t staring
at the 72 incher
in the living room,
that steals our wrestling matches,
and floor leggos,
and old mash episodes
on a small box,
that the family had to huddle
on the one couch,
to try and see
across the room,
touching legs,
and shoulders,
when i was a boy.
while we were there,
listening to the kilted bagpipers
pound out a wheezer,
the phone rang:
that t.v. jumped off the wall
in our sacred bedroom,
and hit momma in the face,
and left her holding it up
by its one remaining lag bolt,
on her tiptoes,
with the door locked,
so next-door-steve
couldn’t run in to help,
and i raced home.
she held that t.v. for twenty minutes,
and the boy only kicked me
from behind,
about five times,
running back to the car.
i had sheared the bolt off
in the wall,
mounting the bracket,
to hold the silly t.v.
to the wall of a place
it didn’t belong.
i always over tighten
everything,
and my wife holds up
the messes
till i get home.
