There is nothing to report.
Just cameras whittling time
into little pixeled boxes.
Behind a curved desk
an anchor is just that today,
a weight to keep the ship steady
focused in on itself,
to stop the rigging pulling loose,
or port and starboard drifting
too far from the bones of each other.
The mics only capture seafoam,
its hiss, hiss, hiss, on sand
as the nothing news drags in
and out across our feet.

Write a poem in the form of a news article you wish would come out tomorrow.

NaPoWriMo 2021 Prompt – Day Thriteen