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Sunday Night
Dad made me order out again
This week it’s Italian
The man on the line has a thick accent and
I can’t understand him
Seems like he’s underwater
Or maybe it’s me
I think the door slams outside
But I can’t tell because
I’m not really listening, anyway
Dad comes back with a box and a bag
Very bare, just white
They laugh at something I don’t hear
I guess I’m still not listening
My dad and my brother talk about football
Like they did all day
And maybe that’s why I’m not hearing
Or maybe I’m just not really here
The smell of the pasta makes me feel like throwing up
It’s greasy and layered with cheese that
I just don’t want to eat
But I eat and they negotiate
About football and who’s winning
Neither of them are, by the way
Waiting for someone to ask about my day
The project I spent hours doing or
The book I read
I know they don’t care, but it’d be nice
Being asked for a change instead of
Being the one to do the asking
I resume my spot on the couch
Where I have been all day
Not moving except to shift the spot on the ceiling
I stare at
So little motivation to do
Absolutely anything
The same commercial,
How many times did I see that one today?
My dad laughs at it again
Like every time it ran
And he kisses me on the top of the head
And I smile out loud
But in my mind
I’m just
Not
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