Tuning The Perennials

[Verse 1]
The Hallicrafters S-38 hums on the Formica counter.
It’s Tuesday night, 11:17, he’s been there since the thaw.
He lets the invasive static vine around the kitchen rafters,
The green glow of the dial, a weak phosphorous law.

[Chorus]
He's just tuning the perennials,
The silent frequencies that bloom inside the wall.
Just tuning the perennials,
To see which ghost will answer to the call.

[Verse 2]
The cold from the linoleum seeps into his stocking feet.
A memory of a different voice, too certain and too loud,
“It’s just the Book of Mormon on a shortwave station bleed-through,” you said,
A seed of doubt you planted, now a fully-leafed-out shroud.

[Chorus]
He's just tuning the perennials,
The silent frequencies that bloom inside the wall.
Just tuning the perennials,
To see which ghost will answer to the call.

[Bridge]
He used to curse the silence, demand it give a sign.
Now he just turns the Bakelite knob and offers it his own.
He whispers "Ammon," then he clears his throat, a cough to realign
The quiet that he’s grafted to the marrow of his bone.

[Outro]
The dial light passes through a single mote of dust.
And for a second, it's enough.