Found the tape in a box marked cables. That was optimistic. Half the reel had folded over. The label said March, Then somebody wrote “bad take” Across the date. I put it in anyway. There was the room. The bad heater. Someone dropping coins near the door. Then your laugh came through Like you were standing behind me With your coat still on. The old wound found a station. I gave it somewhere to play. Nothing in the machine remembered us. I did all of that myself. The recording wasn’t even good. Bass too loud. Snare like a cupboard door. We stop after twenty seconds Because somebody misses the change. I know exactly who. I know what he says next. I say it with him Before the tape gets there. That part bothered me. The old wound found a station. I kept turning up the gain. Nothing crossed the years to reach me. I dragged it through them by the name. People call that being haunted. It isn’t. A room makes a sound. Tape catches part of it. Years go by. Then some idiot presses play And acts surprised When he recognizes himself. I heard the count. I heard the argument. I heard us start again. Not legends. Not brothers. Five tired men Trying to make the ending land. There was nothing sacred in it. That’s why it was ours. The old wound found a station. I was the tower and the wire. The tape held dust and bad decisions. I supplied the fire. Of course I played it again.
