Via Satellite By Jenny Taylor Moodie
Common
as a bruised apple in a lunch box
or a stubborn stop light
or the TV,
yellow and yammering.
You don’t even see
the faces,
flat and fraudulent.
You bobble and nod and agree,
though it’s all the same,
the flimsy linen words
from yesterday
or a year ago.
They flop around
like wet laundry,
tumbled and shaken,
passed around again
with a hidden residue.
They play the ragged dirge
of the boxes and squares
stuffing noise
into every corner of a minute.
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