"My Dad Was A DJ (I Listened To Him All Night Long)"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am posting one of my original poems every Friday. Here is a piece that is a tad autobiographical. Just a tad.


My Dad Was A DJ (I Listened To Him All Night Long)

I grew up in his voice,
a soothing rumble,
his dark timbre
close to my ear as he
tucked me in, told me stories,
his words a loving hug,
a reassuring rock.
Then later if I woke,
a soft glow from the radio
on a shelf above my bed,
lighting my room like a night light,
hearing my dad’s late shift
at the station, his voice
punctuating the lazy pulse
of FM pop in the darkness.

High school, senior year,
I joined the drama club and got
a part in “Barefoot In The Park.”
I was the old man but Mike Sullivan
was Paul, the handsome newlywed.
After rehearsal, everyone left—
just me and Mike in the
off stage dressing room.
Mike’s costume was a suit
with a silk neck tie he didn’t know
how to knot, but I did.
I stood behind him, arms
encircling him, hands busy,
around, over, under, through,
the only sound my dad’s jokes
riding the intro of the next song
whispering from a transistor in the corner.
Our eyes met in the mirror as
he relaxed back into me,
leaning, pushing, grinning.

On closing night, after the play,
Mike stood in my room.
We stared at each other, trying to
comprehend the vastness before us,
explorers setting sail without a map,
my dad’s low murmur our soundtrack,
our lips finally touching,
how dizzying the softness,
smelling our mouths, our breath,
my dad’s bass patter bridging songs,
filling my room like
the inside of a drum,
our hands sliding down
ribs, waists, thighs,
as my dad rained blessings
down on us from the
glowing radio on the shelf
above my bed.

©JEF