Autumn Rain

     Locked up inside, autumn rain torrent, forced in front of a TV screen
     Viewing Japanese cartoons of violence. We saw in each hero, hard
     Drinkers with eyes
     Like puddles.
     In the overexposed house, we glanced outside and caught
     Among the darkness, dirty rainwater, rivers in our river rock bed,
     A Radio! From the 1940’s.
     Orange faceplate, brown wooden structure, arched like the pope’s hat,
     A bit of warmth in the blackness of autumn’s menopausal downpour.
     It was drowning. Wood bubbling with the water sprinkling.
     Our black coats went on.
     Hurry.
     Outside, shoe skins boldly pressing on wet concrete and dirty oceans,
     In the curbside groaning. Alone, like a solder’s corpse, we found it,
     Bound it,
     Lamented over it,
     Chattered of varnish, polish, and returning it
     To former glory.
     No man left behind, no radio through which Orson Welles’ voice
Once breathed,
     Left unaided.
     We took it up, took it home, and cursed the artless souls of those,
     Who originally trashed it.
     Our eyes were keener, more refined. We strapped the radio into
     The truck bed of our best friend, smiled, knowing we had saved it from,
     autumn rain,
     The Curbside of
     Forgotten. The Radio we saved.

It lay in the back of his truck bed,
         We never bought any varnish.
- posted by Brock @ 8:41 PM