The War Room

I was thinking about Elizabeth Cantwell writing poems about The X-Files while watching The War Room the other day. I was thinking about Dalton Day writing poems about St. Vincent while watching The War Room the other day. (And how are the two of them doing, and how I hope they’re well.) I dreamed I was in knee-deep in the snows of New Hampshire the other day, and that the snow was exciting; that I wasn’t in pajamas watching the 1992 All-Star Game or some previous year’s game on a warp of a TV and a flop of a couch, but going door to door with Medically Necessary Cups of Coffee taking the place of an insufficient pair of gloves. I watched Bush put the odd emphasis on “drafted out of the ghettos” and saw Romney’s “binders full of women”; listened to Carville declare that “outside of love, the most sacred thing a person can give is their labour” and thought of a pocket change worth of workers on a picket line disappearing into someone else’s forgetfulness hoping that someone brings the whole of The Durham Cathedral to them; and imagined a campaign for President that began with a candidate disappearing into the depths of someone else’s kitchen to ask, “And how was your day?”