A voice on the radio that we do not know.
We read from a menu, change our mind;
write down telephone numbers promising
to call. Spell our name, correct what's written.
Just when we want to stay, it is time to go.
Ticket stubs on a dresser, computer messages.
A radio hung on the custodian's cart, playing
unnoticed. Sudden awareness of six-o'clock.
Days folded double into themselves,
scattered debris and the dimming afternoon.
We piss away our lives preparing to speak.
The radio slowly drifts from a station.
Bernard Henrie
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-though-we-listen-to-our-lives-on-radio/
