Evening Lineup

The dead screen, black as the type in a religious text.
It cannot be summoned on, remote controlled.
The people who sit and face it, who look to it.
I spent my childhood in front of it feeding.

Someone hooks a video camera up to one,
Shoots the screen, stares at its many selves endlessly
Repeating, looks into the very soul of the thing.
Someone takes a rag and dusts one, straightens the antenna.

The blades of the ceiling fan stirring in the living room.
The newspaper lifting the corners of its war stories.
An abandoned drink sweating in the sunlight.
And on TV, a candid interview with the sound off.