Chattahoochee River, Roswell, GA
At thirteen, each night, I manned a ham radio
that I built pre-acne, its guts filled
with vacuum tubes, blotches of solder.
I fiddled dials, combed frequencies.
Years slid by – I married, made conversation,
children, mistakes, coffee. Moved through bad
diets, decisions, diapers – a ghost
through the curtain of the world. Now, I sit in
cubes, waiting rooms, traffic jams.
Today, river fog curling over my windshield,
I waste light and love, waiting for my GPS to go
catch up, for its voice to become her voice,
for her to lead me home.
[Check out James Wyshynski's back porch interview]