WXYZ
Run, baby, run
through all the clichés
when I’m not
with you. Mid-morning
sunshine and blank
breeze, go on and curtail
the smoky refrain
I used to know, the haze
that eloped to
my conscience from your
figure. You live
through pictures, come
alive in tints on
a screen almost beheld
by my hands, but
your scent is gone, baby
gone, and just
fragments of your voice
when I intone
my thought in C do I
evoke. Yeah, lady,
you were pop, 4|4 time,
like a Beatles’
early song, just as much
of an earworm,
after one play on the stereo,
still humming la
ti da, making up the lyrics
as I go along
with your transmission from
a distant station,
full of static on the radio.
