Here, the people abide
by a strict rule of conduct:
“Do whatever you like,
but do not show your work.”

It’s a lovely place,
although the palates of the people
are limited:

the only media allowed for art
are C4
and saccharine.

Observe the homes linked
on a web of cables
and satellite signals.

Between the explosions
and cloying aftertastes,
and with all the enervation
of constant hiding
in spite of relentless connection,
it’s a wonder
anyone’s still able
to move.

At night, one can drive
for hours, listening
to televisions muting
the sound of weeping.

Once in a while,
a child grows up
to break free for a while.
Most of them come back
eventually.  The fates
of the ones who do not
are a mystery to the inhabitants,
even if the kids become famous.