When all that is left of us is Ira Glass;
on discarded cassettes in plastic cases
with spools run into rampant loops
and squeeky teeth in gears on ye olde
tape machine; will we realize what it was
to live in the new golden age of radio?
This is what it is, Ira; can you know
what this is, a show on parting,
on seperations, on two people, two
complete people, becoming one, in
any number of ways, and then parting,
only to be connected through a religion
called radio, and in sparks and flickers
through static hiss and RF crackle
we sit and stare at air, imagining oracles.
Ira, what if "he", when he makes obnoxious
gestures of sweetheartness, has no idea
what makes a good radio story?
Imagine if he doesn't make anything
she likes, never asks a good question-
and I mean a really good question,
not one she needs to embellish
in order to make interesting, as if
he was some rough draft
of her senior thesis.
Will you be there for us then?
I will need to stare ahead
at the wall, and hear you
ask us perfect questions,
grateful that somewhere
she will hear them
answered.
-e.
- [X] When All That is Left Of Us Is Ira Glass Scout Thompson
- Scout Thompson
