BACHELOR UNCLES ON THE VCR
My two seventy-year uncles
are waving to the video camera
while everyone around me is yelling,
It's Dick and Dave, like we'd just dropped in
to visit them, but all I can think is, Jesus,
it's almost forty years, yet everything's
about the same: even the tilted table-top
Dave keeps straightening
as he shuffles around, describing
the furniture, the rooms,
the way things are.
Dave's ruddy, loud,
like a talkative indian. You'd' think
being followed around by someone
with a camcorder for a head
would throw him, but it doesn't. He's too
good-natured. He knows how TV works.
Look at him, waving, chatting us up.
Like a game-show contestant. Dick's
different. He's quiet, soft, like my mother.
He'd like you to think he's listening to Dave,
but he's not. He's off somewhere,
visiting. Every once in a while,
he'll suddenly remember us,
and look up at the camera lens
as though he could see us, hunched inside,
like astronauts. Like now: that little
smile. He’s onto us. He knows
we’re up there, drifting out and
then back in. Watching him.