with apologies to T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)

I have spent restless nights watching rented DVDs
Of Drew Barrymore shaking her package of Shake N' Bake
Of B-movies about teenagers eaten by a monster in the
lake,
Of Sigourney Weaver, the alien mama
Of Conan being spat on by a llama.

On the screen, Julia Roberts smiles and smiles.
And Gary Sinise broods on the CSI files.

The yellow Prada blouse that Witherspoon wears
The number of times great Al Pacino swears
Makes me forget about the bills, the clogged toilet
bowl,
The ghost of Plath in the kitchen with the defrosted
fowl,
And the dangers of taking showers in cheap motels.
There will be time, there will be time
To check out Romero's living dead
Or to sleep or eat or start a scene or two
Because the next door's party sounds like a zoo.

I should have been a pair of red, red eyes
Staring at the revisions of grandiose lies.

On the screen, Lecter talks about the nature of pain.
The camera pans, and Tim Robbins welcomes the rain.

Do I dare
Hit the pause button
And check if the siren sound
Is just part of another fire drill?