In Absentia

Why not eat dinner on a couch, in front of a static television
that shows news more relevant than any of that media bullshit.
Picking peas off the plate and flicking them through air,
Cutting through spores and the lonely insect.
(Complaining of the brutal light,
Unforgiving the air of wrong vs. right.)

When eating is a chore and keeping it down, even more,
Your body is just as uncaring as your mind trained it to be.
Crack your toes on the tiles treated like speckled stone
skies in the morning, the shepards warning settled with me.
(My bed whispers lies to me in the night,
Between the dreams there's static plight.)

What is it that makes the tiny bugs appear in the afternoon?
The suns angle? But the morning sun angles the same.
Perhaps, just maybe it's instict that cannot be erased:
Like dogs being put to sleep, horses become lame.
(I'm living out a cardboard fight:
Eyes so clear but free of sight.)