Blaring flatscreens tacked on walls;
in front, sit open mouthed little ones,
doughnuts for eyes, glazed with colours and flashes,
a bookcase looming in the corner - the forgotten middle child.
A woman sits, stabbing at a tablet,
legs curled underneath her like a languorous cat,
a router on a telephone table the heartbeat of the house.
I walk on, cold outside and watered eyes,
wind whipping at the phone lines,
fluttering leaves down to meet me.
More windows invite me in, no curtains drawn,
a hundred fishbowls for me to peep,
a child practising dance moves,
a couple moon-faced from laptop screens,
while the TV blazes.
The open fire replaced by a Nickelodeon window,
a Fantasia dance of cartoons in the run up to teatime,
teenagers on Snapchat
and a wealth of homes with bare rooms, all
furniture pointed towards the television,
fake blue glow and
dipping when the adverts come on.
This is six o'clock,
the flickering light of LCD,
HD, Netflix, Now TV.
Press for Guide, pause and rewind,
catch-up in case you missed it.