The couch potato sits as he did long ago
Since video killed the radio star and
Hands that do dishes
The box in the corner
An ever morphing capitalists dream
Long since and now
It peers at us with sights and sounds
The young queen, the old queen
We can relate
Now colored on flat screen
Then the grainy image of black and white
Omo, the flowerpot men and the like
In hefty style now memorialised
In places to reminisce
Baird's time waster
An invention of all time
The couch potato sits on
He has learned much
But not much else
Sitting snugly on a smooth,soft slope
Surveying a stretch of sea eternally still
That moment memorialised in my mind
As the sun- sinking silence soothes the trees
Stand the monuments to shrunken lives.
The plots define within strict limits
The tales of beings whose remembrance
Provides what amounts to no more
Than their names ,ranks and serial numbers,
Their joys and sorrows only to be surmised.
Gloriously the sun bathes the glistening stones
Giving them their moment of glory
Resting softly upon the chiselled legends
And then plunged into the darkness
Of the dead of night
Until their resurrection with the rising sun.