by Jan C. Snow
In no way sought, the knowledge that
Anna Nicole Smith was buried in a pink gown
from a pink church in the Bahamas
is slathered on the surface of my brain like margarine.
I did not want or need to but DO know these things.
Standing at my kitchen window
scanning the dirty snow outside
I pour a cup of coffee and wonder how it is
I know about the pink church, I know about
the pink dress and do not as effortlessly know
how many were killed today, how many
bombed, maimed, burned, how many
kidnapped and murdered last week,
how many this month, this year, this war?
I check the front page for a box score
and find the weather. I flick a switch
and stock quotes crawl across the screen
where names of the forever young should be.
I turn a knob and hear the horrible cost - of
Paul McCartney’s divorce -
If this were a charity drive, there would be
a sign on the lawn of city hall with
figures updated every day,
a bar graph, a shaded pie chart or red
rising in a giant thermometer,
red rising as we all give
so generously to the campaign.
Jan C. Snow writes in Lakewood, Ohio, one city west of Cleveland on the Great Lake Erie. She has published widely in a variety of venues and is heard regularly on “Weekend Radio.” Among her recent honors are a Pushcart Prize nomination and an Ohio Poetry Day award.
