My little radio, my shortwave
monster of confession,
small black box of many sorrows
and a joke or two:
it turns you on to brag about
destruction, tell me that
in jungles heads are rolling,
that the city towers tumble on themselves.
In deserts, things are even worse.
The children, too,
it seems, must suffer
as the world goes boom.
Sometimes I hate what you
have said, can’t stop
from saying. I could fling you out
the window testily
in high green grass,
but everybody knows
you’d just keep squawking.
Better let you scream.