People keep telling me about the Olympics. There’s a swimmer. He’s very good at swimming. I say I put my television out on the patio the week it started snowing. My reception isn’t so good any more, but I always know what’s really happening. After the vehicles pass the crows return to the center of the road to pick at the squirrel. They must feel the same way when I tell them about you. How I keep returning to the same spot even though I know the car is coming. There are insects beneath our lawns. We could all eat them if we just got used to it. This is what happens when I want to talk about the war. It’s everywhere. There’s nothing to say. Your friend. The one who hears voices. She still calls here looking for you. Sometimes I think about picking up the phone. But I’m worried that later she’ll decide I wasn’t really there. People are usually more powerful than they realize. That’s her voice now droning on and on into the answering machine. I’m going out to the patio to watch the Olympics. In ancient Greece all of the athletes who participated in the Sacred Games were required to cease any relevant hostilities. Apparently this doesn’t help the ratings.