Music

Old Clock Radio

I was once told
By a friend
That music is a healing force,
So on a cold night
In emerald flowing mountains
I set my cancer
Down by an old clock radio.

I dialed in
A static-tinged gospel station
With vibrations strung
Through the depths
Of Old American Man—
Chapped worn hands singing
Through a golden throat
And joyful claps
Flying out like
Scared-off crows,
Black over
Blistering wheat field.

Pale morning sky
Cracked through silver mists
Rolling off those green hills
Steaming up to greet the newly
Crested Sun as that old clock radio
Still played.