Riding in my first car,
A `67 Mustang was something.
Windows down, wind rushing in,
That 289-sound,
I love it,
Everything except the radio
Which didn’t preset well,
Leaving me with only the right side knob
To find the stations
To score whatever the drive.

Each turn gave the stations
Just enough time to check-in,
A sort of Name That Tune simulation
Of blended music, talk, and commercials.
Funny how we can tune out the noise
Until the moment when clarity hits
And the perfect sound gets through our haze.

We ran this morning,
A good run, four or five in total, I think,
Cold, crisp air, no breeze,
The smell of toast in the air,
Which was distracting,
Except for the hills,
Which have not changed in years
And it seems my noise tuning memories
Are turning into flashbacks
That became amplified after our run.

The post-run conversation became more active,
Each new person checking in about the group’s workout,
Explaining their own,
Then there was some rapid fire about color coordinating outfits,
And then, silence.
I was gone, lost in the sound of rapid tuning on the old Philco,
When the dial scanned the stations so quickly
That there wasn’t even a sound.
I could see my friends talking,
They were laughing, making faces, enjoying themselves.

Just as I was,
Content in the serene nature of the quiet
There, not there, no where.
Something woke me up, brought me back,
I would guess it was the gargoyle of the pool,
Who true to email descriptions
Does have a Jimmy Dean quality to his digits.
At first, I thought I missed out,
Not hitting on any conversation,
Then I realized, the calm that I was feeling.
There and knowing it was okay that I checked out
Because the comfort of friendships is allowing people
To be themselves.

Maybe that little diversion
Is the reason why I thought about my old car,
Windows down, radio up,
No static.