Please Change the Channel

By Cheech

half removed, half planted on the living room carpet. clinging to the clutter of spilled toys and their imagined personalities.

half Filipina, half not a wide-eyed stare stains in iridescent shock from the cold tv light.

half refracted, half absorbed are the sorrows that seep from the screen. the News is on about the same distant tragedy about names and faces like my own.

I half look at them. I half see them.

half tilapia, half rice. She calls me to the kitchen, and I eat with my hands every grain of her love.