Tuned to 104.6 on the FM
dial, the boom box purrs Golden
Oldies I jerk awake to. You
turn beside me, to me, but turning,
wind tighter into sleep. “I
think it’s great,” you mumble, each
syllable and breath an array of
totem wrapped in haze—a logo
constructed some finer place than
this, plumb-bob perfect by no
light but the dial’s
red rectangle.