There’s an audience
Watching me sleep
From behind this screen
Always dreaming
Of another bad joke
Hearing laughter
Through each night
Unsure if they’re real,

But listening close
While I fade
Into restless lulls
Making judgments
Using scripted lines
Faking gospel
Since echoing life
Static chose

Where commercials chase
Little deaths
And between short scenes
Premonitions
That explain such fears
During daylight
Over flickering walls
Shadows play

For transient shapes
Never gone
While reflections tape
Missing actors
Who portray our sins
Almost comical
Like analog tried
Being real.

How sitcoms trace
What we lost
When enjoyed so late
Grown delirious
Yet perceived as grace
Glowing dimly
Over bedroom shelves
Hiding dust,

Until windows share
Morning’s glare
Which punchline lands
After credits
Only darkness reads
Slowly giggling
Feeling stale come day
Seeming canned.

• J. Pigno