The geography of time
takes me back to music maps.
Before images, comments and “likes,”
I used my psyche to communicate,
especially in summer, with a beige
transistor radio tethered to my hip.
Like a secret prize in a Crackerjack box,
new songs would emerge from the
Beatles, Rolling Stones, Al Green.
I never knew what gold Marvin Gaye
would mine to move my feet and heart,
giving me the power to switch “on.”