UNTITLED (WHEN NEARING OUR SCREENPLAY'S STAR)

When, nearing our own screenplay's star,

We discover it's a candy bar,

 

An industrial facsimile

As seen, apparently, on TV,

 

Our couch potato gaze still fixed

On its fickle, shrink-wrapped sticks,

 

Where the shining air takes root

In the director's lucid fruit

 

The sky's reflected cathode rays

Bouncing off the fat free blaze

 

Of that dietetic solar clone

Where the prism of the world is shown,

 

Which, rather than a passing quirk,

Is the point of the entire work?