the fancy radio my wife gifted
into my simple pickup
has finally died

despite all manner of punching and twirling,
little instrument won’t rouse,
nor even static startle, and
the bright digital time sign has flown

silence, salient, at first,
like a big embarrassing passenger,
crowds the cab

I pull over, pour a bit of citrus vodka
into an empty fast-food coffee cup

on the crow-rowdy gravel road to the river,
windows down, an old channel crackles

Ted writes, paints, plays tennis with Amy Lee. Nominated twice for Best of the Net, and twice for the Pushcart Prize, his work appears in Beloit Poetry Journal, PANK, Spillway, DIAGRAM, North American Review.