My grandpa had a radio
That sat beside his chair,
A brown one with a cloth front part
And knobs worn smooth with care.
Ball games came out of that old box.
Preachers came out too.
Late at night the voices changed
And songs came low and blue.
He’d turn the knob real slow sometimes
Like fishing in the dark,
Trying to catch one far-off voice
Before it slipped apart.
There was a hiss between the words,
A snow made out of sound,
And every now and then a song
From some lost little town.
I liked to sit and hear it fade
Then come in strong once more.
It made the whole night feel more wide
Than just our living room floor.
I think I loved that radio
For what it let me hear.
A house can stay a house and still
Hold places not quite here.