four years ago

music was spectral sound carved into the

latest political ad or cultural phenomenon

in ghost colors, struggling

through self-imposed chains

that bound black and white noise

four years have passed

and now I smile when her sweet notes materialize

on the crest of smoky air

and reach my earnest ears

arched in warm surrender

I think I’ve lost hearing

but I don’t care enough to temper these desires

that unlock my fingers toward

the well-worn Crosley perched expectantly

on a reddish mahogany throne

never a victim of static sound.