by on February 28, 2022 :: 0 comments

Our parents never danced
and now their music almost falls
out of their radio with static
the same as detergent commercials
and sometimes the latest obituaries
charm the emptiness of the airwaves
while another lightning bolt sloughs
an echo out of the radio’s speaker
while the DJ tries to sound somber
about some old lady being buried
on Hawpatch Mountain the place
where the sun will rise again with
flocks of redwings above sorghum fields
and the same news headlines following
a steel guitar singing into frost melt.

editors note:

It’s not what we remember but how. – mh clay

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