the end of your broadcast day in poetry

in our youth, it was all analog
hissing clouds of snowy flight
random-generation from the very
background static of the universe
whispering sweet nothings by night
distant lullabyes of gray and white
between late shows and farm reports
before twenty-four hour
news weather and sports
back when things would
still start and stop
back when there were
still in-betweens
back when things could
still sometimes go still
back before it all
went digital

now, if the signal’s
lost at all, it’s just
pure azure blue and silence
no room for interpretation or change
just the endless violence
of emptied-out perfection
all or nothing everything
succumbs to that infection
because we’re old, we miss the snow
of course, that’s just
how all things go