On the square, silver Sony radio
with the cheap black leatherette wrist strap
I always feared would snap,
our soundtrack falling lost into the lake,
those tiny speakers, small and tinny,
burbling down to the muddy bottom,
remembering the charge,
a nine-volt chunky block,
we hearing some pop horn section,
brassy and sharp, Herb Alpert perhaps,
out of key with the serene scene
rolling out beneath you and me
on the green blanket blades
of barely summer grass.
A perfect day, nearly,
cooled with a hot slap,
but for just right then,
everything was all
laughs and little tickles.
Lanning Lee 