The borrowed projector continued to click
as I walked into the room.
I had a question or a problem—I
might have knocked. Maybe not.
My mother leaned against the headboard,
my father’s feet were on the floor.
He faced the window—some kind of anguish,
images flickered on the wall.
Things were strewn across the bed:
clothing, papers, wrappers; a drink
on the nightstand, sweated in the sweltering
heat. The projector case stood
on the dresser, its lid thrown open, plastic
handle rising in a stifled “O” above
the immaculate lining of the empty box.
