Static Childhood Memories

Quaint faces in tiny boxes

say crackle words through

a blizzard of static.

The ears have long since gone deaf

trying to hear the world's problems

over waves of wind and air.

A battered pair, storytellers at heart

(but twisted by news and time),

tell about the newest crime on the street.

The man's eyes twitch so slightly and

the woman's voice catches quite rightly

as they describe the gore and hate.

Don't-turn-that-dial

they ask with guile

and hope for a while

we won't leave them

alone because--

nothing ever changes.

Reviews

[Perhaps Maybe]

I love the message you are sending out in this poem, it took me a few reads to fully understand it but every time I went through it I enjoyed it more and more