Lately I’ve become accustomed to the way
glazed eyes glue themselves to screens
or empty conversations with text breaks in-between
seem to prioritize a world ever connected.
Front page news, 1922.
“Mayor may speak today” | “Four incomes exceed 5k.”
People roar, stock market soars.
Two pennies for a paper, proposals for peace.
“Who will expel the Greeks?”
“Not ready for a republic.”
“Never a prohibitionist.”
Front page news, 2022.
Price? Free. | Cost? Sanity.
“Russia invades Ukraine.”
“There’s a new strain.”
“Americans aren’t ready
for the consequence.”
And lately I’ve become numb to the way
that I can’t run away
from the dings, and the pings, and the fear.
A conversation with my dreams
speaks of a time
when news hid within the confines
of a print too small to share. | It was still there.
Hiding in the corners of a world
disconnected.
We’re uncensored; we’re real
We dodge fake news | We play to appeal
We wake to a blue-lit world
of sore thumbs and small talk
and sleep to the sound
of sirens and song.
Where did we go wrong?
– Brooke Lamberti