Broken Radio

When I was young I had a friend who in the nights would call.

She’d show up momentarily, but that was all.

Each time I tried to turn her up or down or on or off,

she’d hiss as if to say she’d had enough.

One time she wouldn’t play, I threw her to the ground.

Of course that was the final time she came around.

And now she’s salvaged, fresh from the garbage,

en route to some old rich man’s cottage.

If I’ve forgotten, don’t think it’s all because of age.

Ah, they want a million for you.

Ah, just now that I adore you.

Ah, I’m sorry that I floored you.

Ah, my radio!

So many

million hours have already gone past.

You’re of

things whose makers didn’t make them to last.

Play the

long notes slowly; short notes, play them fast.

I can

hear you still, broken radio.

I can’t say I regret not having you along.

At least you got me part-way through the age of song,

and I’d grown used to patching up your broken croon.

But there are other ways to hear a tune.

Oh radio, revive for me forgotten rhymes –

you manufactured relic of our modern times.

But if I keep you, will they applaud us?

If not, we’ll supper at the audits.

Up in the attic, I found you covered up with dust.

Ah, who’d ever think to keep you.

Ah, not let the rust to eat you.

Ah, don’t let that rich man meet you.