I like to have a quiet place to pray,
and sitting, waiting, in my truck, well that’s
about as quiet as it ever gets
because the radio died in ’88.
When a radio dies where does its music go?
They say sound waves never really go away.
I don’t understand what all I know
about that. I guess I believe that sound’s a wave.
I guess I believe there are tiny bones in my ear,
a hammer and an anvil and a horseshoe? Is that right?
I wonder if they’ll be taking questions there.
I wonder if it’s always kind of twilight.
There’s the ferry now—I guess it’s time
I got myself in gear and got in line.
Ferry on Highway 169 somewhere in Kentucky (a Creative Commons shot from Edlitmus on Flickr)
marniere 
This speaks to me. I love its meditative qualities. I love its questions. I love its beginning and its endings and all things in between.
yay! thanks!
I heard about your poetry from @midwesterngothic magazine. You’re fantastic. I love it!
Thanks so much!!!