The couch is always comfy, come Tuesday
evening, as I make myself a small ball
my Father alone in his chair,
the single seater moulded to his shape,
pointed square, our small television the focal.

We two are performing our ritual,
our only such,
a kid he never knew how to bond with
and I,
a kid who never knew how to be,
but this we adore in unison,
this our programme.
Forty five minutes of synchronised
laughter, gasps and joy.

I return to this show, now an adult,
his age during our time,
and I explode with emotion.
It forces through me
and out, out through tears
and splutters and coughs,
long dormant happiness erupts
intertwined with memory,
and I am comforted.