Trolling the airwaves with the old Zenith radio,
I catch signals off the ionosphere.
Grandfather tells me before stations were regulated,
he could pull in New York and Boston.
Back in ‘65, when The Beatles released hit after hit,
I skipped to a new station after every song— sang along for hours.
In the morning everything is a snow storm of static.
Nothing gets through . . .
Yet in evening,
as light fails, the veil is removed.
I go inside and bathe my face
in the faint amber glow of the radio,
adjusting the dial to baseball from St. Louis,
a talk show in Albuquerque,
picking up cities
all the way from Calgary to LA.