The TV set centered in the airy living room,
breakfast flowing out of the kitchen, a fruit salad, garishly and gorgeously colorful,
flavors waiting to be accepted into our plates.
The screen door lets sunlight casually stream in,
providing a view of rows of unextraordinarily neat suburban houses with
the greenest grass you ever did see.
Next to the door, the tv set blares artificial light into our waiting eyes,
bleeding a selection of biased facts and blood and animals and lovers.
Plants thriving,
the palm trees tickling the pale blue sky,
growing, gaining on the azure blanket.
I tiptoe around the house, pouring water into the plants.

Obama speaks on the television,
strongly, surely and filled with influence and intellect.
He is split screen with a terrorist attack.
The screen is one part hope and one part horror.
I don’t know what to invest my desperation in,
what to believe in.
On top of cabinets, there are plants breathing insistently
but no one sees them.