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Houses with No Television At first, uncommon. Then so quickly rare, Houses without television became Whooping cranes or condors, large things passing From our lives—Frank Derr’s, where his parents watched The perpetual broadcast of absence. They had packed bookshelves along three full walls, Magazines arranged so thickly, they looked Like the office subscriptions of doctors. Like his mother worked there. Like his father Sat behind a door keeping appointments With people who read to keep fear confused. Across from their green couch was a space where A television belonged, the carpet Bright where no one walked. That spot, unused, looked Like a room built for a child suddenly Stillborn, the family passing that door, Seeing furniture doggedly waiting Until it turned impossible to use, Someone, then, closing that door so the room Turned into the idea of a child, And then, at last, a dark, unheated space, A draft slipping under the door, something Noted when a woman paused while passing, Uncomfortable only if she stopped And sat with her back against it, the chill Using the language of the imagined. 57 P 1FINCKE_pages.qxd 5/21/08 9:31 AM Page 57 ...

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