WEBVTT

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I wrote a little
election night poem.

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[LAUGHTER]

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It's called the
"Parable of the Eyes."

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See, I'm reading
titles, which shows you

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what a hypocrite I am.

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[LAUGHTER]

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Somewhere in America on the
plains is a silo full of eyes.

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They're closed.

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Shut tight, though now
and then a few tears

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run, and a rivulet of
salty water shudders

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the piles in the murk
of those great bins,

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like storage lockers
people put things in they

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can't remember why they bought.

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Once valued things
that got in the way

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as they moved from here to
there, and there to here.

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Here, where the bells
toll day and night,

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deep bronze the sound, and
slow decay goes on and on.

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And the eyeless try
to drown the sound.

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Sit down to the TV news.

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When the knock of the
fist comes on the door

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and you can hear the
grinding of gears

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as the trucks pull up
outside, and the eyes

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locked in the
heartland silos

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suddenly blink and open wide.

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And all they see is other
eyes and all that darkness

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staring back.

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