The Man with the Radios

Beyond the curtainless
bay windows of his room
on the sidestreet,

he kneels
among old radios, left
from a time of belief

in radios,
some dangling fat
tails of cord

from end tables, some
in darkening corners
sprouting hairs of wire

from their great backs,
and this strange one
he has chosen,

standing on the paws
of an African cat.
The man with the radios

is so far away
in his gaze you would swear
he hears nothing,

so still you might miss
how he concentrates
on not moving

his hand. Slowly,
slowly he turns
its ridged

knob in the dark,
listening for the sound
he has prepared it for,

watching with his absent eyes
the film that clears
from a green eye.