News at Noon
By Mary E. Weems
Television has a place in the house
the mat on the dining room table, the dog and cat,
tables, couches, and chairs.
midday and I take in recent deaths
my Subway sandwich. One after another recently departed
no faces get their 60 seconds of fame. No time
close-ups, family interviews, respect for the dead
imbedded in reporters reading teleprompters, watching
computer screens, keeping emotions
in-line with the script—
reporter briefly mentions a man discovered dead inside
Reported by a neighbor tired of stacking the man’s
newspapers on the front porch,
the back porch, then beside the garage for twelve
concern an environmental mental note he tossed around
days before dialing 911.
neighbor knew where the spare key was. The officers
over a sea of different-colored-envelopes, their
reading Past Due, Cancelled, Collections.
Everything a perfect combination of neat and dust, the
covering the ceilings guarded their webs like soldiers.
Keeping cop noses to the ground, they hear a commercial
just in time for the lunch they’ll have right
bedroom, what’s left of the man slouches in front of his
The reclining chair holding him
like a woman.
posting 25 February 2007