His words bubbled from the speakers
as he bantered with the host,
his voice coffee-warm with a Norwegian froth;
he began reading in a tone one might use
when granting deepest confidence—
interrupting himself, making mid-poem commentary,
repeating favorite stanzas—
and I knew again that I was fatherless,
and I felt like a blind man, and mute from birth.
When he finished, the host segued to a country star,
and I turned off the radio, driving on in a silence
composed of the slap of wiper blades,
the moan of tire tread, the persistent spit of rain,
and the breath of my sons as they slept.
–end–
I once interviewed Robert Bly for a student newspaper and he had a similar effect. I enjoyed your poem!