I wrote a little election night poem.
[LAUGHTER]
It's called the "Parable of the Eyes."
See, I'm reading titles, which shows you
what a hypocrite I am.
[LAUGHTER]
Somewhere in America on the plains is a silo full of eyes.
They're closed.
Shut tight, though now and then a few tears
run, and a rivulet of salty water shudders
the piles in the murk of those great bins,
like storage lockers people put things in they
can't remember why they bought.
Once valued things that got in the way
as they moved from here to there, and there to here.
Here, where the bells toll day and night,
deep bronze the sound, and slow decay goes on and on.
And the eyeless try to drown the sound.
Sit down to the TV news.
When the knock of the fist comes on the door
and you can hear the grinding of gears
as the trucks pull up outside, and the eyes
locked in the heartland silos
suddenly blink and open wide.
And all they see is other eyes and all that darkness
staring back.