radio days

I see my unhappy childhood
like a shadowbox play, a mini
drama enclosed inside a
greater drama, and in turn
an even greater drama
I may never recognize.

Little people, little hearts,
spinning flywheels of grief
and pain for so little reason
seen from the wider lens of
the cheap seats.

Where have the radio days gone?

The double-edged voice of
my mother raised to sing
the song of the arrogant Jew,
the man who makes the
whole world sing,

she all unknowing, unaware,
aware and knowing only
simple, impermanent things.

The dog's breakfast.

Let's leave the radio on
so that he might sing too.

March 26, 2024