It’s not that the co-hosts are boring,
but just a few minutes into this podcast
and their conversation is obscure,
the dialogue a sonic blur,
and try as I might to remain steadfast
to the episode I’m now ignoring,
my consciousness seems to be jazz-handing
in front of my face, memories and worries
I’d meant to escape now practicing improv,
and sights I’d taken no notice of
are competing for attention like forgotten trees
that fell in a forest where no one was standing.
Of course, the “rewind” button is a time machine
to concoct some aural déjà vu,
reversing on the road where I took a wrong fork,
but unlike the Guggenheim in New York,
where there’s just a single spiral to pass through,
listening to a podcast is more labyrinthine,
where, unsupported by breaks from a sponsor,
my imagination wrests control of the mic,
telling stories that wander through sudden digressions
with the humour and candor of intimate confessions,
producing an episode only one man might like,
though not the one he was listening for.