A Poem for Record Players

--John Wieners

The scene changes

 

Five hours later and

I come into a room

where a clock ticks.

I find a pillow to

muffle the sounds I make.

I am engaged in taking away

from God his sound.

The pigeons somewhere

above me, the cough

a man makes down the hall,

the flap of wings

below me, the squeak

of sparrows in the alley.

The scratches I itch

on my scalp, the landing

of birds under the bay

window out my window.

All dull details

I can only describe to you,

but which are here and

I hear and shall never

give up again, shall carry

with me over the streets

of this seacoast city,

forever; oh clack your

metal wings, god, you are

mine now in the morning.

I have you by the ears

in the exhaust pipes of

a thousand cars gunning

their motors turning over

all over town.

 

6.15.58