Mumbai

Laying on my stomach
Elbows tucked under
Prop me perpendicular

Wires tracing from my ears
Little veins
Pulsing with blood melody
Words, clots, leukocytes
In rhythm

Frenzied fingers
Mapping out arrows
On the mousepad
Computer whirs and buzzes
Clicks
A plasma screen dolphin

Springs up a page
New York Times, 4:49 p.m.
Just in
Black and white and read
All over

Gunmen in Mumbai hotels
Peppering the guests
Hole here, hole there
Connect the dots, children,
A hole in mommy, a hole in grandpa

Tears, acid rain
Along my fat white cheeks
Falling into the cracks on the silver keyboard
Plaque's built up in the blood wires
I don't hear a thing
Connect the dots, children