Second Screening Poem by Martin Ward

It's very pleasant to hunker-down
in front of the television.
Place a warm blanket over my knees;
a glass of red wine close at hand.
Curtains closed against the evening chill,
with the thrills of an old Inspector Morse
or another repeat on ITV 3. Same-old-same-olds.
Ad-breaks for The Walking Dead
or keeping the kitchen floor clean
seem more interesting than the mainstream news.

I shouldn't feel guilty about second screening:
87% of people do it, according to a recent survey.
After all, some television is really boring,
so I'll browse my mobile phone at the same time.
I really want to check tomorrow's weather,
but somehow I always lose concentration
and miss the punch line, whether or not it will be raining.
The news is worse: Britain and France bickering again,
but I feel that I should keep it as background as I second screen.

Football draws me from my mobile phone:
just for a few seconds, but I drift away
when yet another famine, filmed somewhere-or-other
shows skin-on-bones children with bloated stomachs,
or another little-more-than-lilo with anonymous content
does or doesn't find its way to Dover.
Inflated content or more bad news
that barely stirs by attention.
If only something interesting could be found.
I keep searching whilst the trifle unfolds:
another child washed-up on a beach,
face-down, faceless non-person,
kissing pebbles with frozen lips
that will never taste fresh water again.

It's become background/wallpaper/Muzak.

I snooze beneath the warm blanket
until something of interest
wakes me up - I don't know how that happens;
must be a circadian alarm clock rung
by something that matters to me.

Christmas ads catch my attention:
I must stock up a festive feast, or at the very least
plan my many purchases online.
After all, it will soon be Christmas.