every song on the radio reminds me of you
each one seems to be the story of our lives
yet i believe nothing is like anything else
certainly we’re more complex
than these play list platitudes.

i spend all my time conjuring metaphors
from the ephemera passing through this room
the radio noise, the mail, the newspapers, the phone calls
hoping we will be something else
so if i tell you i am a utility infielder
if i claim you are postage due
remember, the details are artifice
but the theory still holds, rather
the feeling still holds.

i see from the newspaper some reviewer called “you”
“almost believable,” & who do i address now
you, or “you," or a new ’you’
whose features haven’t frozen in my mind
shifting with each new song, jelling during commercials
than melting when a new hit is played.

i’m being sucked into the Billboard Top Forty
i can’t deny i’m part of the 19-30
17 billion dollar marketing target group
i’m susceptible to the manufactured emotion
at the same time that i’m trying to hand craft one
for us to share, & the radio plays in your room too
where you are propped up in bed with your three primary texts
Our Bodies Ourselves, The Joy of Sex, & Glamour Magazine
spread out before you on the quilt
you touch yourself as you ponder the pictures
did i ever tell you about my friend’s 62 chevy
with the caddy transmission & the dodge engine?
he picked up all the parts in a junkyard
& the car got us to the drugstore
it got us down the shore
we got to the factory every day in it
& that was all we ever asked.