Meal

The idiot boxes have grown smaller
And ubiquitous.
Unavoidable, static channels of small dimensions
But vast reach.
We had a conversation, you never looked up.
There is no point in conversation anymore.
We have nothing to exchange.
This is how evolution proceeds,
Old flesh becomes new,
The bone structure metallic.
I will prepare this meal,
And whether it brings any measure of joy is irrelevant.
Someone or something in the endless reach
Of cyberspace
Will have found a better way to make it
With colors so bright as to be unreal
And words more crisp and assured
Than mine could ever be.