I bring a portable radio with me today
Partly because I notice he hasn’t been watching television
And partly to rid myself of the fuzzed soft-rock
And calls in to a personality named Delilah
That bring back bridges to Illinois and my mother’s bedroom.
I set it on the stand next to the orchid that,
For once, makes living seem effortless.
He thanks me and I begin my report of
Maggie and Noah and the terrier’s walks along the Hudson.
He stops me mid-sentence with—
A non-response—
Looks down at his wrists helpless under the medical bracelets
And asks me to tell him something about the cold front.
Tells me something about low hanging fruit
And the tobacco fields in Tennessee.
Something about naming children after places (Tennessee, India, Paris)—
How it dislocates his theory that everybody looks their name
About Saul Alinsky and demonstrations in the old Chicago stockyards
About a girl who beat him at pool on a Monday night in Brooklyn
And the way she chalked the stick without missing her fingertips
About one hundred and fifty channels with no reception
And flowers that never die and it doesn’t help…
At home we could shut the blinds.
It could be dark during the day and the blankets
Won’t smell like latex gloves and plastic masks.
You could listen or not and I could help you
Flip to your side when the cramps come on.
But tonight you will listen to Delilah and
The callers who want to dedicate and apologize
And you will think of the sound of a road
Passing under your feet and children asleep in the back
Who know nothing of the smell of sterility.
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