Arizona trailer, sunbleached —
air vents blowing signs of things to come,
lifting our t-shirts into bodies
we weren’t old enough to grow.

It made us laugh,
uncorrected
in nighties, jellies, and desert dusk —
mini Marilyn Monroes.

My grandfather,
who never once landed a joke
I understood,
knitted afghans like riddles
only he could read.
He’d sit up with me through Taxi,
smile along with the laugh track,
then quietly retreat
when Kirk came on,
ceding the couch to my prepubescence,
my obsessions
and notions of honor
among thieves and gentlemen
in deep space.

I read the TV Guide like scripture—
circled titles
and broadcast times
in pencil.
If it was one I hadn’t seen,
I’d sit upright,
at attention,
like watching it right might
save the redshirts this time.

If I’d seen it before,
I watched anyway
to feel all the subtle notes
repeat themselves.

That was our pact,
my inheritance,
the wordless lesson he taught me
of leaving well enough alone.