Long after my father said good night
I sat beside the glowing Philco
like a doctor listening for a murmur:
news from Albuquerque, play-by-plays
from sultry, soft-edged Southern states.
I combed the humming atmosphere
with a needle, searching for word
of distance, proof of faraway.

Now, sleepless before dawn,
I tune in the all-night talk shows,
coaxing out of thin air the faint
nocturnal drift of strangers.
They call like crickets across the night,
quieting those other voices
that keep me up, broadcast
from fading stations in the past.

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