The Eleven O'Clock Burnout

The warehouse is burning again on the screen.

The orange is hot but the living room's green.

I’m sunk in the couch with the remote on the floor,

I don't think I can stand to look anymore.

The ticker is running a race on the glass,

counting the bodies and the hours that pass.

My glasses are catching the crawl of the light,

flickering red in the middle of the night.

I’m sitting here heavy, a lump in the dark,

watching the sirens and the spray of the spark.

The anchor is talking but the sound is a blur,

like the world is a machine with a broken-down purr.