Imagine Mr. Holloway
in 1973

so riveted by Watergate
he unplugs the small
Magnavox black and white
in the den
and carries it under his arm
to the morning train

finds a plug
beneath his seat
fiddles with the antenna
and picks up Gene Shalit
on the Today Show
joking about Nixon's jowls

arriving at work
he plunks the idiot box
on the desk
beside his typewriter

keeps the volume low
as the Congressional hearing
begins

hauls the boob tube
to the bathroom
with an extension cord
to reach the one plug
near the sink
so he can hear
the nation's dirty secrets
while squatting in the stall

straps the damn contraption
to his back
for his lunch-time jog
in the park
no extension long enough
but he imagines
the flickering images of
Haldeman, Ehrlichman
and Mitchell
getting what they all deserve

no Watergate coverage
between 1 and 5
but soaps and snappy commercials
make the afternoon
go faster

then the train ride home
dinner with the wife and kids

and the game of catch
with Junior in the backyard
TV screwed now
to a piece of plywood
braced against his chest
the screen just below eye level
nifty how he can still catch
and throw
without missing a word
from David Brinkley

finally
his wife on top
approaching ecstasy

he waits
until her eyes
are closed

reaches over
to the night stand

and turns the volume
all the way

up.
                        

Walter White did not go gentle
into that good night;
some would say his problems mounted

when he chose to fight.
Junkies seeking blue surrender
under neon light;

Walter gave them what they wanted—
damn the wrong or right.
Wife and son, convenient reasons;

maybe it was spite.
Money piled in storage lockers—
tail that wagged the kite.

Maybe he enjoyed the vista 
from that dark, sad height:
orange desert stretching ageless

while his lungs grew tight.
Finally his in-law brother
had him dead to rights;

Walter didn’t mean to kill him—
well, that is, not quite.
Ozymandias had Hebrew

slaves to flex his might;
Icarus had wax and sunshine
melting down his flight;

Walter White had only Jesse,
high-school-dropout bright.
Junkie with a moral compass,

teacher full of blight;
one survived, the other raged and 
fell in that good night.
                        

The sound of a power saw
comes through the open back door
Addie Bundren had to listen 
to her son Cash 
sawing and hammering her coffin 
beneath the open window
through the muggy Mississippi days
the same way we all listen
to the buzz saw of the Milky Way
grinding planetary wood chips
bones of stars
the cosmic carpenter and his lathe 
the sander and the varnish
the perfect rosewood box
full of stars.