The Daily Planchette

Local newspapers are dying

In times increasingly composed

Of flying pigs and toothy hens—

The ghosts like to sing in the grass,

While the machines cut down the trees

And the world grows fat on disease—

The presses aren’t competition,

And the airwaves are ghosts themselves,

And the little plank left on site,

A piece of scrap nailed to its wheels,

One long nail left for a stylus,

Scrapes at the dust to remind us.