The familiar glow of my television died,
snuffed out by digital murderers, never again
to display evening news, sports, game shows.
 
I’m forced to buy a new TV, dump the old
dysfunctional tube into bins labeled hazardous
material, reuse, repurpose, recycle. 
 
The new screen performs as advertised:
images sharper than shattered crystal, colors
that could make birds of paradise envious. 
 
But high-definition broadcasts horrify show
hosts, news anchors; showcase bloodshot eyes,
bad teeth, caldera pores, lava-flow wrinkles. 
 
Low-budget special effects exposed like 
amateur puppet theater, strings and crutch in 
full view, puppeteer hunched under blankets. 
 
Camera software rushes into production, 
blurs images like oil smeared on lenses, secret
trick of photographers to hide imperfection.
 
Farewell media collection, Betamax, VHS,
DVD, incapable of playing clear memories
until restored, remastered, repurchased.
 
Nothing I own will ever be good enough. 
Before the scent of new plastic subsides, my new 
television is obsolete, next generation on sale.