On my early morning scroll through news feed
I begin to feel like that crowd must have felt
standing on a New York or Boston wharf
waiting for the next instalment of a Dickens novel.
A certain desperation bordering on frenzy
as I dangle off the cliff edge
of one truncated headline after another.
And in this compromising position
where I am hoping for an index finger
to emerge out of the clouds,
a bit like Adam,
though he was reclining on a grassy hillside
whilst I am dangling over the precipice
of which cookies to allow.
At my feet loose rock clattering into a silence.
It might be a good time to ask
if I really need or want to know
what Olivia Coleman has freely created...
or whether Little Nell has really died...
Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard
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