In Praise of Television

Somebody has left

on the news, headlines

passing through

like lawnmowers.

Sunday. Clotheslines

pass through lawns.

Their shadows

bow to the grass—

the soil, the breath,

the scandal

of the watering can.

Before that,

the fork impaling

the pancake. Before that,

butter, thawing

on the tongue.

Maple syrup,

in garish silence.

Sit. Because the phone

will not ring.

Because the unwashed

plates are Caravaggio’s

soiled feet. Because

the faucet drips

to remember. How feet

curve through the lawns.

How, without hands,

some bodies watch

and watch. The vacuum

hums. The dust

settles down like flour

on the roof

of countertops.

Sunday passes

through the hose.

Fade out.

The ads play.