The sun goes, So long, so long, see you around.
And zone by zone by zone across America
the all-night coast-to-coast ghost café lights up.
Millions of dots of darkness—the loners,
the losers, the half alive—twitch awake
under the cold electronic coverlet,
and tune in their radios’ cracked insomnia.
A static craziness scratches and buzzes
inside the glowing tombstones of talk
—some crossed wires’ hodgepodge dialogue,
or Morse and remorse of garbled Maydays
of prayers shot down by Heaven’s deaf ear.
Heaven itself is crashing tonight.
The signal breaks up, it fades. Silence.
Then static, then chatter. Then silence. And still
the alien area codes we phone in
our cries . . .
                     “Hello, Larry?”
                                           “Go ahead, Cleveland, 
You’re on the air”
                             "Larry, this is Don in Cleveland. 
Longtime listener, first-time caller,”
                                                        booms a voice
that could float you home in a hurricane
—that big and rich, that cheery; its billion bucks
IV directly into the bankrupt heart.
It’s one A.M. and, God knows, I need it bad,
just one little hit of hopefulness.
I dial Don down to whisper, curl closer,
plug myself into the keyhole of sound.
Feed me! Be me!
                            “Great show, Larry, great interview!
Loved it, Larry! My hat definitely is off
to you.”