Pulled from a shelf and myself on a lounge,
I sit with the brittle paged book.
Try as I might, my immersion is dashed
From the sounds of dinner cooked.

My will delivers a writ to read,
My mind runs to and fro,
The television demands my attention.
Progress, none will flow.

Instead, I sit with prose,
And write a poem on the fixation.
Five minutes have passed; The T.V. now dull.
Finally, I receive my satiation.