by Jason Emde

have always had a peculiar power

to make me sad. More than

other obvious problems, I mean.

This may or may not be connected

to a Disney film about deaf kids

I saw at the Polson Theatre in 1981;

I could be wrong but I think

it was called Amy. A kid got hit

by a train & I cried in the dark.

The power to make me unhappy:

blameless little shells

on the sides of springtime heads

plugged right in the centre with

fancy technology that belongs —

clearly — in older, grizzlier ears. 

Take them out or turn

them off — however they

work — & no beach waves, bird

song, Beethoven, Beatles. No Beatles!

I look at my sons, young & 

smooth & mostly blameless,

& I revere their ears, which take

everything in. But maybe I’m wrong

about all this, too — if my boys could

turn the world down they’d lose

not only Nilsson & Nirvana

but also the asshole dog next door, 

kitchen arguments about money,

the diabolic squawk of Trump-era tv,

dad’s querulous bullshit about work

& weather, decrepit men sucking their teeth 

& the clocks, the clocks ticking,

the clocks blameless & busy,

lifting partitions & waving hello

& goodbye.