The wind is at the windows again
The panes, too sedate to rattle
reflect a darkening sky
Blank television squirms on its stand
anxious to tell its tale
but the remote remains untouched
A storm brews on the horizon
Oil stirs in machines of war
like ego in a jaded performer
The show will go on
Network Generals are ready
for the war of the ratings,
for coverage of candid carnage,
but my television remains dark
This child spooned his Gerber's
perched in a neon-flowered highchair
nestled in a virtual Vietnam
Shook his rattle to echo machine guns
Watched monks ignite themselves,
believing cameras could help
convey their desperation
Saw his peers clutch
at mothers who no longer moved
in living technicolor
Bombs turned night into day,
turned life into death
But I, too young to comprehend,
watching hell on earth,
did not remain untouched
c) C. Butler 2003
