It’s almost as if someone forgot to turn the radio off.

Not in this room

but the one across the hall or down the corridor,

a somewhere that can’t be found

no matter how many corners I check.

The distance turns voices to static,

punctured with partial comments

slipping between floorboard

like strings of mist on summer mornings.

Even if I press my ear to the wallpaper

I still can’t link the lines into one another.

The harder I try

the deeper the crackle in the speakers.

If I busy myself,

turn the dishwasher on,

boil the kettle,

fill the house with the rattle and clatter of things needing to be done,

I might just stand a chance.

A hiccup in the warble leaves a sentence

pressed against my ear,

burrowing its way through

to find the next line

in the dark of the grey matter inside.

All the while the radio continues playing

in a room I cannot find.