Syzygy Whispers (a poem)

The radio's off, but I still hear it playing
white-noise beats & muffled guitar,
as if the static were some ghastly grip
smothering the station.
 
Some lost-river broadcast.
 
Undocumented, adrift.
 
I spin the dial to make certain.
It shouldn't be playing.
It isn't playing.
But here I am list(en)ing.
 
I check my cell; no noise.
 
As the hair rises on my neck, I look to the back seat;
aware of a presence there.
The shadows breathe.
Alone in the dark.
 
I'd locked the doors before going into the theater.
Parked 'neath the streetlamp with the cop-car beside it.
The doors were still locked when I got to the car,
but the cruiser was gone.
 
Here I am.
 
Still.
 
Listening to ghost-music.
 
As it plays syzygy whispers
just beneath the tattered, rattlin' A.C.
 
I drive
and it plays me home.
 
Home.
I turn the key.
 
And kill the music.