News Kim Addonizio Because no reporters came to my door wanting to confirm my low opinion of the Bush administration, because not even the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who can usually be counted on to arrive each Saturday bearing informative articles on Satan’s wiles and the hour of judgment can be counted on this afternoon, I have no one to tell that the load of laundry I managed to carry to the washer has been transferred successfully to the dryer. I even was able to make myself coffee and toss the cat’s toy onto her carpeted platform before returning to my bed. These were little victories over a sullen god – the one who hunkers down and rocks back and forth, muttering that there’s no reason to go on lifting the stone of today only to watch it roll down into tomorrow. And now I feel compelled to report that when the clothes were dry and warm I got up and folded them and put them away. Then I finally dressed, late in the afternoon, and looked out the window and saw my neighbor, an old black man who lives alone and sits on his porch most days in a ratty kitchen chair. So I got my harmonica and played a bit of Sonny Terry I’d been working on and I don’t know if he listened, if it lit a match to the damp cigarette of his joy I can’t say, but maybe it did in some small and unrecorded way. -- p2: defenestrate --

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