Saturday, January 03, 2009

white noise

No longer occupying my life
in swift, broad strokes
but in a splatter,
I’m driving with the radio
on low AM-band static
in the Douglas county rain
and there you are in bursts—
phantom, atlas, eyelash,
traveling the airwaves bad and beautiful,
knotted up in light.
I imagine your handprints
on all the windows,
a happy little honky-tonk,
my Navajo blankets in neon;
all the pretty lonely words
spoken from a distance measured
in airfare.

Driving drunk on sleep,
work tomorrow—
don’t you know what I am?
A name in miles,
a favorite song, a date of birth.
And I may never get away.
So tonight, it’s the tuxedo
with patches on the elbows,
poignancy in the bed of the Chevy
flying down the quarry highway.
They say you’re doing fine now,
I wait to pass that judgment
until I see your name in the news,
I just hear you,
I always hear you,
I never change the frequency.