Poem Excluding Fiction
By Noah Falck
We live in the most fortunate of times. And
who's to blame? Our moods like the four
seasons in a tinted window overlooking a
bank robbery. Everyone is raising children
on cable television, on leashes, on the slot
machines that have become our elegies. We
live other lives in high school, college, on the
porch reading the obituaries. Say I miss you
into the mirror while shaving, brushing teeth,
plucking something meant to grow forever.
I may eventually get more than an eighth of a mile away from my house, but Monday was not that day. We finished digging out the car, and I did laundry and folded it while watching the extremely enjoyable Shaun the Sheep, and in the evening we took a brief walk around the next cul-de-sac over to see if we could see any of the wildlife we'd spotted earlier from the kitchen windows (four deer, several squirrels, lots of birds, but the bunnies were all hiding). But that's as far away as I got.
We also watched the Fassbender-Cotillard Macbeth, which is excellent -- a few changes in the drama that I wasn't crazy about, but the acting is wonderful and the setting is interesting (not Glamis Castle but a very sparse structure before he's king). Forced to choose between Supergirl and The X-Files, I went with the latter and was not at all sorry -- I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it, crack government conspiracies and all. Spot the squirrel with the deer and the big snow drifts: