Dying is the new spectator sport.
Late night hospice T.V. takes a bunch
of old losers and makes them stars.
In the grocery stores little kids
are buying their trading cards.
Geezers on covers of magazines.
Hospital gowns the new in thing
to wear strolling Newbury Street.
Electromagnet machines issue
their reports once every second,
and the outlook is bright:
death rests comfortably on the horizon
as a new crop of die-rs
enjoys their last rites and tea
with preacher/producers who praise
the Lord for the money in mortality.
Each night my grandmother and I
sit on the couch and give the set
all we’ve got. She leans forward
and squints. The wrinkles in her face
carry her message across. The lines
in her face carry the message across.
Chad Reynolds was born in Oklahoma and lives in Boston. More poems from his series, Lines, can be found in Octopus Magazine, RealPoetik, Redivider, Sawbuck, and Verse Daily; other work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in absent magazine and Diagram. His chapbook, Victor in the New World, is just out from Rope-a-Dope Press.