Radio.

I found out you were not listening,
That the sound of you listening
Was the sound of the paper moving
In the doorway.
The sound of the coffee being made
In the other room.
I found out a lot of things.
I found out you like cell phones,
Especially the ring tones-
Your favorite is a song by Lady Gaga,
Whom I haven’t familiarized myself with.
I don’t fancy any particular musician.
I used to play the cello.
I don’t fancy anything other than the wind
And the movement of the trees,
And the smell of bacon frying in the oven.
I never thought I’d piece together things
Things that were in-between.
The in-between that was nothing
And seemed to fight with me,
The wings of movement,
Of destiny and the simple promise of
Dictating.
I never thought I’d find you with the phonograph
Machine,
Your back whirring.
Or the sound of the harp playing
In someone else’s backyard,
Or the sound of your voice in the silence.
I don’t fancy I’m good enough.
Good enough for anything other than making
Breakfast for strangers,
And the lilacs blooming on the porch.