The last TV roundup

The evening is the colour of fog
This end of year,
The street a street of grit
And clumps of ice,
Cars dumped in frozen drifts
Along both sides.
What light there is
Clings to the windowpanes
Of shadowed houses
Where unseen people sit in rooms
Remote in seasonal haze
Before blue screens,
Or brush their teeth and argue
What it means.
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gw2010