The Tube TV

A bulky box, a cathode ray's soft glow, The analog TV in a gentle fading show. Its rabbit ears, a hopeful, awkward plea, To catch a signal wild and wandering free. The snowy static, a familiar haze, Before an image flickered through the maze. Adjusting knobs with patient turning hand, To find a picture clear across the land. The vibrant colors sometimes slightly off, Yet bringing stories, laughter, tears, and scoff. A family gathered in the evening's hush, Sharing moments in a silent, visual rush. The local channels limited and few, But each a window offering something new. Cartoons on Saturday, a movie late at night, A comforting presence bathing rooms in light. The test pattern's hum, a signal late at night, That broadcasting slept until the morning's light. A sense of finality when colors bled to gray, A silent promise of a brand new day. Now flat screens gleam with pixels sharp and clean, The analog's warmth, a memory unseen By younger eyes who know but digital's art, A world more perfect tearing worlds apart. So let us cherish that old faithful friend, Whose fuzzy pictures marked a time we'd spend Together watching stories unfold slow, The analog TV in its poignant afterglow. ©bfa040525