Rose was

the woman

down the road

an ancient with

a constant ring of blue

cigarette smoke leveled about

her round freshly permed head

had the only satellite dish

 

an uncle bought a VCR

hooked it to our Touch Tune

Magnavox

and we watched VHS tapes

labeled in her blue Bic ink

 

I watched Han Solo

point his finger at a princess

admired how Chuck Norris

could beat anyone

but Bruce Lee

 

I’d let the T-120s

spin out Shaggy

as he ran from ghosts

 

all those fictional men

had just enough parts

to make me think of you

 

now

sitting in front of my television

I play those same shows

keeps parts of you alive

and I don’t care

how fictional they may be