They are tinnitus, like ice in bourbon, tickling rhythm with rhyme.
Old country songs, about a Lineman and Galveston.
They are almost a memory, the Gulf coast, a tire-swing,
tar covered heels and his white Coastie slacks and coat.  

They get in front of work,
they get in front of life,
dragging out what lingers in darkness
between the sun and the sea.  

They ring like conch shells
I heldup to my ear.
It’s been so long that I can’t 
remember what I’m listening to.  

Like remembering would silence
the tin sound of my transistor radio.
Their lyrics, barely a memory. I strain
to hear them, just once more, before
they become indistinguishable
from that incessant roar.