Don’t we envy cats who lounge
carefree on couch-backs?
Yet disdain the human
rooted in worn cushions,
nestled under wooly blanket
on a chill morn,
tools of trade arrayed:
TV remote, laptop, diet Dew.
Tubers thrive underground
coffined behind drawn blinds,
risks of face to face intercourse
negated in computer’s artificial glow,
tentatively tunneling outward,
a leaf extending toward sunlight,
searching for nourishing scraps,
a kind word, a selfless deed,
among aphids of political chaos,
brain and body slowly composting
as milk is suckled from internet’s teat
before it curdles under heat
of conspiracy theories and hateful rhetoric.
Once saturated, the tuber sinks
into the comfort of solitude
and crazy antics of Granny and Jed
or perhaps the gang from Cheers –
wishing its name was known, too –
anything to drown out a world
where love your neighbor
becomes cage your neighbor’s children.
©2019 Kenneth W. Arthur
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