Duck under the awning, sprinkled black with mildew
listen to the rustling patter of six-legged, hurried things,
nurse your sore, string-wound hands against your chest.
Breathe the dust of rotting canvas, taste
the brown of sugar and the red of ketchup, grope
in the sudden dimness for German instruments
that can't ever be deceived. Here,
where each transistor is its own heavy resistance, here
set the tuning band to seek, here:
put yourself in the sway of blond and delicate boys
who dreamed a mastery of circuits when you still clutched
a pistol and a plastic tomahawk.