She Used To Listen To Police Radio At Night

With the rain pounding like stones

And the moon having taken cover behind the mountain,

She would sit on the stool in the kitchen and window gaze.

Not quite at the mountain itself,

But in its vague direction.

Maybe at the train line that ran beneath 

Or at the bruised and whiplashed conifers.

Either way, it was a dead-eyed stare,

But somewhere behind those eyes,

She played a movie back to herself.

A movie of a time long since past.

A past that was never coming back

No matter how much she hunted it down.

The soundtrack to this reverie

Was supplied by a beaten-down radio that sat on top of the fridge

Tuned into the police wave-band.

The broadcast would flood the kitchen with dead radio waves,

Interrupted only by fragments of criminal activity within a forty mile radius.

But what she was really listening to, 

I never grasped until much later.

The more I considered it, 

The more I became convinced she only really came alive

When she could get inside of the white noise and static.

The lives of police in patrol cars meant nothing to her.

There was no comfort to be found in their work.

What she was looking for was well hidden in the cracks of the hiss-music.

But I know she never found it.

All I know is she used to listen to police radio at night.


From an oncoming poetry collection: 'Eight Grams'.

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