Signals

I’m out sighing at my beat-up car
this rare warm day kicking me out
to take in the march of entropy:
the patchy yard like Highway 80,
the matted phlegm of fir trees,
and my rusted, cancerous old car
shaken by gravity even as I watch;
lord, the corroded antenna still
jauntily grabbing those invisible
rays as best it can considering;
I scratch some fuzzy oxide off,
hoping to improve its reception,
when I spy you looking up into
the mangy palm tree, studying,
taking it in, standing straight
in the fool’s gold sunlight; eyes
bright, attention focused; rusting
with age, aren’t we all, but still
receiving reality’s crazy signals.