When he staggered back
on a Saturday afternoon
he’d switch the wrestling on

and you had to be quiet.

He’d tell you to move
and his wasted body
would fall into his chair,

then the snoring would start
and you’d creep up to the TV
and turn over, but never

get the volume down quick enough.

You’d go to bed and think about
how it would be in a hundred years
without sweaty wrestlers writhing ‘round

to the sound of him slurring them on.