The Glow

The anchor has a tie the color of a scab

and he’s talking about the rising heat.

I’ve watched the same footage of a flooded street

for forty minutes from the edge of my slab.

My thumb is tired of the vertical crawl.

There is a war in a place I can't spell,

and a fire, and a drought, and a slow-motion hell,

and a child standing still by a crumbling wall.

I look down at my water, lukewarm and flat.

The blue light of the screen is a ghost in the glass.

I’m waiting for the feeling of horror to pass,

but it’s gone, and I’m just sitting here after that.