Fran Markover

A Little Light Music

The radio ham of Planet X chances on W-EARTH,
fine tunes reception as light from our ionosphere

wafts to his, becomes sound, an August day encoded—
high school bands, thunder in Iowa, the star Sinatra

who emits Nice ‘n Easy through ectoplasmic waves. 
The Radio X-Man chomping on fireballs, chewing

his possible fingernails like a boy at matinee hearing  
who’s-on-first predicaments—Will Joltin’ Joe

and his Yankees cream the White Sox? Who wins
War Number Two? What mushroom cloud swallows

Nagasaki? The alien crystal-gazes past lunar dust,
monitors hissing black holes that roil with force-fields

of song, electro-magnetic tales. What Lone Ranger
can unmask the chaos light years away? Find ultra-

high-resolution? The creature deactivates his remote,
tiptoes to his sleepy mate. He sparks her auricles,

whispers, Honey, guess what I’ve just heard.
It’s only a paper moon sailing over a cardboard sea.

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