Radio Ga Ga
Late at night, my hands in bitty suds
My windowed image set against the sky
The radio flashes reports of distant guns.
A horrid double pun, the news from them
Finds me as quickly as the lobbed shells arc
To their marks a mile (an earth) away. If I
Could slip between their wavelengths I think
I'd rumble up my verb-tank, and smash it through
A wall; I’d lob an angular noun to lodge
In mud, and kids would climb its ragged edges
And wonder what its fractured shape might tell
Its rounded d and sloping e, its jagged t and h.
My full-stop shells would unfold as they fell
To swinging question marks, a dropping line
Interrogating the aimless volleyed taunts.
But the radio’s jingle calls attention back
To myself, my verbals and my wrinkled hands
Doing the dishes, passing poetic time
In my revolutionarily flagrant mind.
