Goddamn TV Antenna
In the summer when delicate leaves adorn the locust trees below,
My TV reception seems resolute.
No need to balance the tethered ivory pancake on wall sconces
or bury it ankle deep in the freshly repotted Spathiphyllum plant.
Duct tape and bungee cords don’t fear
the contortious demands of an impatient viewer.
And there is no black hole
in the confines of my living room.
For it is summer.
And the livin’ is easy.
Each leg of the Triple Crown plays out in high-def grandeur
with hooves kicking dirt in a thunderous fury.
Grand slams never evaporate between home plate and the right field wall.
And Ken Burns looks younger than ever.
But as the seasons march forward and the clocks fall back, things go to hell.
And the atmosphere hates me.
My surround sound speakers stutter and fail
as dust brown locust leaves drift from their branches.
Pixels begin to freeze on the screen as if beset by an arctic storm
and the signal degrades until the set goes black.
I rush in panic
to grab my cabled lifeline,
dancing past the entertainment center
in pirouettes and ballonés,
just to rescue the fading glimpse
of a touchdown pass.
The set lies still – in a comatose state.
Then magically returns in time for the next commercial.
For it is winter
and the livin’ is torture.
Sure. I could buy cable and cheat the hangman.
But I’ll stand on the coffee table. And persevere till spring.