Our Song

Dishonest thunderstorms
will smoothly wash
the burning radio
which I have cast in shotput style
from the window above

The radio was innocent
but made the mistake
of coming between me
and the anger and sorrow
that I hold in reserve
for your delayed return

Delayed not by the storm
but by his enfolding arms
you have made your decision
like I told you to
but not the one I wanted

And so I glare down
at the offending radio
and loudly proclaim
my minor victory
"There! Now, don't ever play
that fucking song again!"