On the Radio

A Sonnet

The first songs you sang to were the Beatles’

in the car, driving to kindergarten,

learning from the teacher, Sir George Martin,

in a little voice that was not feeble.

Cried like a baby to hear they broke up

at the time you really were a baby,

didn’t get to be a screaming lady,

begging me to turn the radio up.

Those songs will always remind me of you,

that era a swelling bruised purple sore

from vinyl records that shall spin no more.

Where what is silent remains what is true

          is where the heart refuses such healing

          that carefree music brings on good feelings.