The Television
An aging television rests
on a giant, black footlocker
under the low, slanted ceiling
of a small stuffy attic.
I turn on the television,
receiving a shock
when my hand touches
the metal power knob.
An electric tingle runs up my arm
as my fingers move across the screen,
gathering dry, gray dust
and leaving a clear line in their wake.
I cut the power
and light shrinks
toward the screen’s center
like water falling down a sink’s drain.
Even powerless the television breathes
for in its screen I see myself,
an apparition
in ethereal blackness.
Michael Rappa 