How poetic would it be if the television was turned on to see
to hear
nothing but static,
a microcosm of my day, my month, my year?
Whatever, no matter, Superbowl Sunday!
No wait, even better:
a flicker, a faint impression, a hazy depiction
of a forlorn battlefield
with and hundreds and thousands of eerily routine
smiles screaming, “I warned you”
on the screen as my reflection becomes apparen—
Wait, was that a touchdown?
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