And in other news

The reporter tosses gruesome headlines 

at the camera.  

I can tell she‘s reading

the teleprompter

line for line. 

Her blond hair drapes down

her chest, stopping on her heart. 

She has a good make-up artist.  

Together they can rule the world.  

“Ten shot dead,” says she

as if the sorry dead of ten 

were a sorry nest of mice.  

I can’t imagine her

as somebody’s mother.  Real life

reeks too much for her.  

Real life smells like tuna.  

But she drones on. 

Ten other victims wounded.  

And in other news, the Lakers win

another round.  

And  I think, she ought to say,

People, people

This is the 34th mass shooting 

so far this year.  

She ought to add—And the year is just beginning. 

She should say this in a voice that’s breaking.  

She should touch her heart and say,

I cannot bear to talk about the Lakers.

For that, come back another day. 

But there’s no chance at all 

of changing how she 

arranges her words 

till they taste ok.  

She forgot what truth sounds like.

The pay is that good.