Rumbling, riffing guitar, extra
drums of trash contrivance
that sound dead — no reverberation
from the kick — the bass of it
seems nonexistent until a moment
of dead air, and then another song
begins; a new song with a stronger bass
and a dobro but it’s short — clear voice,
firm hands on the axe — was it recorded
separately, all together? Call letters follow.
Then, another song…

I turn the radio off. I love
silence when I can’t sing. I long
for it — let the music sink into me
the way the sorrow does, the way
the joy does…

the way it all does, every little scrap.

It is getting to be light outside,
the sun coming up over the street
from between three-deckers; dimmed
until a scrap pierces through and
the day promises more light…

that and the silence after the radio
goes off are enough to make this
a day, inexorable and constant.

Turn the radio back on.
You need something to do.
It will happen again.
You will need something to do
and silence tells you so little
about that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T