In a dark drawer he shreds the bristles
of a basting brush,
gleaning oil from the boar’s hair,
then rears, snout stained
by the bouillon cube he despoiled.
His whiskers twitch, he listens . . .
No, he is alone. The sportscasters
collaborating on a bedtime story.
Play by play threaded with color,
action with consequence—
the man of the house,
permitted to stay up, drifted off
to that comforting
suspense. The wife braces
in her blanket of white noise.
if remembered, will surprise