Radio
I wish I still had a radio in the bathroom
like back on Liberty St., Hone St., maybe even
here at first, a gift from Dan, part of
his dead grandmother’s things.
The kind of radio you see now in the
“You’re This Old If” memes,
small, brown plastic with twisty dials,
antenna built into the cord.
Eventually the belts inside must have loosened,
and it only played one station, but
it was a station I liked,
the one from Woodstock
before it melted down into one long
hipster serenade, when it played
rock, jazz, blues, classical, country,
even read books aloud.
These days, I can’t risk propping
my cellphone up on the toilet or
beside the sink, because, inevitably,
my day will be ruined.
I pile books into a basket behind the door,
and in the shower I am confined to
solitary time with only my thoughts,
the ones that used to be gilded by
the goings on at WDST.
They are bare as I am then,
pushing their heavy agendas of
sorrow, guilt, even a little nostalgia
for good measure.
Naked, I am at their mercy,
unprotected by familiar riffs,
droning DJs repeating the weather,
a hardware store’s insistent, endless
dirge.
CAR 5/10/24
