Everything is televised status quo
for the cocoon-sleepers. They dangle
from the blue glow, waiting out
a mid-life metamorphosis, watching candidates
beetle-scurry for hours. Almost inanimate.
Then on live TV, a beetle overturns,
flails its patriotic legs in midair—
the sleepers stir and gnaw at their robes.
One sees the shame of its own bedroom slippers.
It’s almost worth finding the remote, but
wait five minutes—there’s no need now.
Slumber from the slumped cocoons.