Poem "Almost"

Almost


It's a simple system, really.
In dots and dashes all words can be expressed
All things communicated.
A simple system of talking 'round the world

And you may think it's a joke,
But even numbers say certain things
To most, seventy-three is just a number,
Who knew it meant "Best Wishes"?

Or the much more amorous eighty-eights,
Old and married men feel no shyness,
When saying "Love and Kisses"
To twenty year old women.

But these were meant for telegrams,
And not for signals bounced,
like super balls, in the atmosphere.
For distant strangers, faces unseen.

Some nights the solar wind is steady,
and signals come through strong and clear.
A chat of dashes spaced with dots.
You weep to hear his syncopation.

Reclined, around a crackling fire,
Ensconced in weathered leather.
Speaking with your fingers,
And listening with an open heart.

Two strangers were never closer.
"My daughter's getting married"
"I've got a new job"
"They want to try more treatments"

Our sun's afflicted with flares and spots,
and earth is full of storms.
Crackles overpower the beeps,
Chats become struggles, and nothing is clear.

Gone are armchairs and the personal beat,
Thunder crashes pain the ears,
Stripped of nuance, it takes your all,
To tell him "I am here!"

And even after he is gone,
And the radio is put to bed,
Antenna disconnected, grounded wires
It seems the beeps live on.

In the shower, can you hear it?
Was that an "L"? Was that a "V"?
Was he talking to me, in the
rushing of the water?

You listen for words from the dryer,
Or hope from the dispose-all
The rumble of traffic holds an eight,
or perhaps just a seven...
... and was there a second number?

-CBD