Today, my ongoing series are crossing over: Future Stuff and Sonnets have met, shared drinks, went back to one or the other’s house and made sweet, consequence-less love. But wait … there were consequences. DIRE consequences. Spoken of in hushed, fearful tones, the child of the passionate night has been called …
The Walking TV
On stilted legs it glides throughout the home,
Following the viewer from room to room.
The homebound now need never be alone,
It is always there with you in the gloom.
It knows exactly what you want to watch
Because it is always watching, too;
Knows when to crank the volume up a notch,
And keeps record of all the shows you view.
At night when you place your head to pillow,
Close your eyes to shut out the daily stress,
It lurks bedside playing smooth jazz down low:
Strains of soft sax like a lover’s caress.
Deeply dream of all the things you have seen
Wrapped in the flickering glow of its screen.