Only wires and air

And we bow down to these vaginal idols,
every moment of every day-
dream there she is–right beside me,
and I don’t even know her.
Such a pantheon to worship:
to assume there is a perfect goddess
is betting on Mercury
waiting, waiting for the return letter,
checking every conversation for an address to permanently live.
Oh! to be unmade by the batting of lashes and the curves
of roads that lead and twist and detour
signs left by others point, but behind
the wheel seems to be the only pointer,
pulling up beside a car zooming along to the same curves,
but a different road each time,
never to meet again.
Maybe if I collide and call Allstate, we’ll get to talk,
I could glance at her home address,
or at least she’d yell at me as we fill out forms.
It would be better than this
mechanism called radio with its chord-less voice
of only wires and air.