at a lecture about darfur

cotton heads and crooked backs, wine sipping and the new yorker tucked under their arms. they shuffled into the auditorium, slowly lowering their wrinkled bodies into the seats. a friday evening of stories about a genocide happening miles and countries away. grunts of disgust at pictures of gouged eyes. their bodies cloaked in fur and cashmere twitched at the photo of a castrated man baking in the sun. the speaker gave countless stories, a quivering voice impassioned by conviction. he told the audience that they can bring change. yes, these feeble bodies could end mass murder. "write letters to your president and senator," he implored. "yes. of course. surely i will," their heads nodded in agreement. and i sat there thinking, "my generation will do more."