Two lonely girls in front of the TV.
One wrinkled hand upon the other. Crossed in disapproval.
A young one clicking incessantly at the lurid screen.
Silence. Then noise.
They talk of sex and dirt. She listens, winces.
Crackles uncomfortably between the sheets.
The old hand stays where it is.
The young one clicks frantically at the lurid screen, pressing all the wrong
buttons in turn.
She looks over slyly, to see if she’s watching.
What happened to wholesome television? They both wonder.
Both lie back, their double chins doubling over to form years of fat they’ve accumulated.
Sigh in resignation at the lack of excitement. At the prospect of another Saturday night casualty.
The two lonely hands. One wrinkled and exhausted. The other smooth but hesitant.
On two sides of life, alone on a lonely night.
