A seventy year-old man with diarrhea greets you from the pixeled
Page. He writes. He'd rather sleep, but can't. A brilliant evening sun
Shines in upon his illness-addled mind. In time, he'll have something
To eat. He'll skip the propaganda news, the pious talk of two dead
Babies brought from where so many thousands slaughtered rot,
And go unmourned, the wind-up soldiers dashing here and there,
Convinced the Russians, who want only to be left alone, are planning
To invade. Ah, diarrhea, it would seem, has become all too widespread
Now. The old man plods off toward the toilet, after that, to bed.