Rory Galbraith Poet Prose Poetry

That Thing

I plopped down in my usual spot
and pressed the button that brings that thing to life
that thing that has pride of place in our lounge
in front of which we sit for hours
paying it our undivided attention 
not only hearing it, but listening to it 
around which we routinely gather 
whilst almost unnoticed
we chew and swallow our evening meal
that thing that informs and delights
that keeps us abreast
that allows us, guilt-free
to step into the land of wishes and fantasy  
letting loose the reins of reason and censure
to witness acts of terrible violence and cruelty
without evoking our moral or ethical obligation to object or intervene
to feel love and kinship for people that we do not know
who, in minutes, effortlessly master the hardships and the miseries 
that sap our resolve, deplete and diminish us   
that thing that is vibrant and alive  
pulsing with flawless sound and high definition colour   
yet renders us languid and inert  
which has us passively seated, silent observers, non-participants 
that thing that leaves us unanchored and lost, forlorn and aimless
when the gods of electricity withhold their gift
rendering it mute and blank  
that thing that is everything
almost.

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