Poem: The Hit Parade

THE HIT PARADE

I listen to an old radio. It's big, made of wood
and brass, a good tombstone for a locomotive.
Of course it plays new music as well as old
but through a hiss and crackle that ages
even the news. Listened to this way it is easy
to understand how new nothing is. It's raining
or it isn't, someone is dead or missing, someone
needs me so bad it hurts. I like that ancient song
that asks, Baby, where did our love go? I want
to answer, I don't know, you had it last. So far
I haven't heard that one. But I do hear
Stardust and Sincerely and If You Don't Know
How To Do It I'll Show You How To Walk
The Dog. The oldest song is Kiss Me. It was
written a week after the Ice Age and really meant
Kiss Me. Stop looking at the mammoth, drop
the snowball, and hold me. I'm scared, every
thing seems so new. And it was. For a while.
As more new things happened people became
more frightened and kissed more deeply. They
kept one hand on their swords and opened
their mouths. It was called 'Gaul Kissing' then.
Soon the idea of history really started to sink in
and people became truly terrified. Maps
were drawn of the oceans, horses were hired
to build steam engines, and finally lightning
was trapped in a box and forced to confess
radio. The songs flowed like wine, which is
what they were. They were old but felt new
and that was encouraging. We know now
that radio never stops but keeps going
past the sky into space. The songs tumble
away from us like wagon trains, bearing old
cotton banners that say Listen, something new . . .