Between Stations

Trying to find a song, just one,

something old, before the day is done.

But the dial just spins, it seems,

through all my half-forgotten dreams.

A hiss, a rush, a white noise wall,

blocking out the world, blocking all

the voices, the familiar tune,

just empty air beneath the moon.

I fiddle, hard, with clumsy hand,

try to make the signals land.

But it's just that grit, that blank, dry sound,

like shouting into hallowed ground.

Nothing comes through, just this hum,

a vacant space where words become

unheard. And I just sit and stare,

at nothing, breathing in the dead air.