Emergency

I was on my way back from downtown when I noticed a rather open fire. "That doesn't seem right," I said to myself. Turning the corner, I could tell that the porch of the house in question indeed had an uncontrolled fire blazing, next to a grill. I pulled into the nearest parking lot and dialed 911.

Seemed that several people had been calling in the same emergency. The operator asked me if I could confirm the address, and I said I could run up to the house and call her back. By the time I made it, the resident was on his porch with a hose, putting out the fire himself. I called to him, "You got it out!" He seemed surprised that someone knew what was going on, but confirmed that he'd called someone about it. Another person who'd seen the same thing was running up right behind me to make sure everything was okay. I called 911 back and let them know the resident had extinguished the fire, but she said fire trucks were on their way just in case.

Nice to know that people actually go out of their way in this town when something like that happens.

And now, time for a walk.

Scandal

By the way, Snow: Congress "Doesn't Have Oversight Ability"

I don't know why Congress is "looking for a compromise." (Well, actually, it seems only Arlen Specter is looking to do so, which would actually go a long way toward making it seem that the political fight is partisan.)

Barber

Stephen Colbert's guest from last night, Benjamin Barber, is an author from Grinnell. After Colbert demanded to know if he went to an Ivy League college, Barber acknowledged Grinnell as his alma mater. Then he said, "Well, Grinnell is the Harvard of the Midwest, so I suppose in a way you're right."

Great, great plug.

The show reruns at 8:30 p.m. ET.

Reflection on a Window

The tree is a door.
Unhandled,
it is rooted to the earth.
Its doorjambs are white,
airy and indeterminate.

What is this tree?
Why will that grain
never open or close?

Solace

The skin so discolored
after days of still blood. Hair
tucked back in an almost bun.
Breath: an illusion of the eye.
Frown set in the closed jaw--
no more food to distribute
throughout the body. The minerals
can settle.

Toes turn inward as though ashamed.
My mother turns the cloth up,
handles the calves. I caution her:
health codes. No embalming.
Her voice: "I must do this." She must
touch the body. She pushes to the thighs,
the laces of veins.

White lace trims the skin from wrist
to neck to waist. Undertakers must
have struggled. The men who shook our hands
hooked those arms, hoisted the shoulders
and unfurled that springtime dress.
The blanched skin would indent,
not spring back, under the stress.

I leave my mother with the womb
that bore her, lain out
in the shape of a woman.

Politeness

Blood accrues. Like taxes
it adds and adds until there's
a return. It sheds in silence
for hours. Like water
it slides unseen.

Obscene to speak of this
to anyone, too many
secrets sewn up.
We thread our lips
at the table, thread them

with tampon string.
Oh, but there is no thing.

Question

For those in the United States:

Can you imagine a classless system?

If so, what would it look like?