Out of Jukeboxes and Car Radios
This sky has my number.
Not far off a siren wails,
the first Wednesday of the month.
This is a test, I know. That the sky has passed
the point of giving up
anything is a comfort, unexpected.
This light pretends the cold's a memory.
It isn't. And lovers aren't
picky about time, which is, after
all, an odd fellow who hums tunes
no one can sing the words to
though everyone swears the song is
one they've sung along with
as it came out of jukeboxes and car radios.
No music someone has slipped quarters into
a slot to hear could be mistaken
by anyone for any kind of siren.
But it could be a warning to lovers
to hang on. That flesh is
the only redemption possible
in this world. Lovers, your tongues tease
what meaning is possible from flesh.