The Talk Show Host

motorised chairs whine. plastic seats creak under old bones.

fluorescent tubes hum low.

steel poles rise above balding heads and thin hair. clear bags of saline drip slow, intravenous lines taped to blue-veined arms.

they sit in rows, three deep, five across. care-home attendants move quiet between them. they wait for the talk show host.

his suit catches television light in cheap sparkles. makeup caked thick. blush layered on in rosy swathes. the studio audience goes silent, stale air stops in throats. contestants lean in.

will Mrs Grey win the kitchen from modus or scoop the grand prize, a trip to Florida with a pocket of spending money. sweaty fingers hover over buzzers, the tension builds in the canned air, the sign flashes applaud now, on the air.

sudden death this week.

Mr Thomson gone before his grandchildren made it through the door. his favourite Saturday night ritual, the talk show host. the one bright square left in the dim room. the host still chatters bright on the screen like a gold tooth in a skull.

funeral next week. limited social housing. another empty chair by Saturday.

applause on the screen,
and under it, unremarked,
a chair going cold.