Monday Night, News At Ten Poem by Not Long Left

Involving yourself as each image
flickers on the screen,
You enter a moment.
His hands are untied
yet he holds them out
unsure of his freedom
he chains himself to a leg.

A speck of a human
lays in a prison cot
body wrapped with office tape.
Absorbed we sigh with shock,
The tumble dryer stops
the baby monitor crackles,
then we return.
A row of children with old
mens faces rock to and thro
in isolated unison.
The camera zooms
we can smell the shit
we can palm a tear
Hollywood emotion evokers
slide the bow over the string
We are breaking up inside.

The narrator looses himself
in with his own voice,
It trembles
dissolved in troubled screams
which rebound from wall to wall.

We want to turn, to close this show
we want to offer our money,
our love, our humanity
We want to watch,
We want to know
We are so lucky
So fucking lucky it hurts
for an hour or so
before our life returns
and we have no choice
but to remove the images
deep into the darkest part of the brain,
allowing them to seep out
when our fingers find words.