All funerals
Seem to be reruns
Of a cathode soul
Soon expired
Like our tube TV
In that bedroom
Where no one sleeps
But their ghost

Who traces rays
Through each mind
Though projects with fate
Sudden pictures
Which pale from light
Glowing faintly
Left behind what screen
Still exists

Yet remains on waves
God allows
Now recording days
Moving slowly
By engaging pain
Flipping channels
Until signals fade
After twelve

When rewinding scenes
Once alive
Searching memories bare
Fixing tracking
Between audience laughs
Hearing loved ones
Leaving final goodbyes
Over tapes

Since midnight knows
Every run
Only broadcast kids
Truly jaded
Could sustain beyond
Syndication
Watching time explain
Why we lost

How adjusting knobs
Dialed back
Proving things were right
While premiering
Shows us empty prayers
Toward nostalgia
Making monochrome
Feel so at home.

• J. Pigno