I hear everything, you know
And oh how I deceive you
with my dials—my numbers

The things that happen from here to
there
define what happens there and here,
you know

Choose your station
—old, tired oldies
—new, tired hits
Meat Loaf and Timberlake

Pick your CD
scratched to skip,
sk-, ski-, ski-, sk-, skip
Celine Dion and Vanilla Ice?

But I hear everything,
you know
I hear the call to your wife and son
The variance in your tones
Adjust my bass and balance
and I’ll hear yours
Your voice gets deeper, you know
The rhythms in your tone go from
narcissistic, pointless hip-hop to smooth, thoughtful jazz
Diddy to Coltrane

That is when she calls.
She gets the sax and melodies
Your wife and son get the hip you

And I hear it all.
I hear the complexities of your lies
the holes in your stories.
I know things you never will--
I can scan to and find an exact frequency.

Your wife knows—she’ll
never tell you this, though.
The screeches of your insincere guitar
pain her too much for confrontation.
And like her, I let you choose the music.
And oh how you deceive yourself.
If you listened to what I hear,
And stopped hiding in what you tell me to play,
maybe you’d listen too.
Maybe your taste in music would be a bit
more classy,
homely.

And oh how you deceive.