The glass of whiskey in my hand, in three
Dimensions, floats into my drunken vision --
Unfocused scotch three fingers deep. If we
Could watch TV on time, our indecision
About the DVR, commercials, skipping
Ahead past Mustang spots and advertisements
Forgotten after laughing.... my decision
To pour is taken under poor advisement.
The buttons are, as always, rubber places
For fingers -- mash 'em, feel the symbols printed
In raised white ink, the isolated places
Between the show and what comes next; it's hinted
The season's final episode won't answer
Our question: House's dream, or Wilson's cancer?
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