The wind from the fan caresses my face,
As I lie with my eyes closed in darkness,
Alone with the pounding pain at the back of my head,
And the whirring sound of the spinning fan.
Our silence is interrupted
By the sound of a small black dog
Eating her food very ladylike,
Pawing it one piece at a time
From her dish and once removed,
Chewing it very precisely until it is gone.
Now aware of the world outside of myself,
I open my eyes and turn on the television.
The information age is alive and well
In my living room.
During this time of war
When a person can be lost
In what is patriotic or just,
The incessant buzz of partisan news
Feeds the passions of consumers,
Waiting, wanting, needing,
The television must be turned off
It is time to be alone
With the pounding in the back of my head,
The whirring sound of a spinning fan,
And the love of a small black dog.
May 27, 2005