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.