The TVs so loud that
You can’t hear me knocking
On your door.
But that doesn’t matter,
Because you don’t want to
Hear the door, because
Who’s telling you what?
Good news is finite.
And you heard it
All, you suppose.
Bad news has a monopoly
On the news now, from
Here to the moon, and
Bad news?
It squeezes itself into
Something as pure and simple
As a hospital room
Filled with newborn babies.
Because even when
You haven’t had food to ****,
You cry because
You have to ****.
And your Mom
Finds it cute.
The wailing, all
That suffering that can’t
Be worded, pain like
A gallon of water
Without the gallon
To hold it, it sprawls
Baby…

Wah!
Wah!
Wah!

But you’ll find your words one day,
And talk real nice,
And maybe go to college,
But guess what baby?
There are no survivors.
So what do we do?
We turn the TV louder.