Joshua Mensch
Not life but revenge.
The great singer sits in his car
night after night
toying with the radio.
He’s playing the static channels again.
Somewhere in the snow
is a pure note
resembling his voice.
It’s demented, of course.
Static, sitting inside one’s ear
for hours like an important thing to do.
He lived inside that note once.
He could have ended with it
lodged, a morsel in his throat.
He could have been a voice
above his body, someone singing down.