by Felix Jung
I have a version of “The Rainbow Connection,” as sung
by some punk rock band that bangs their instruments
and yells a lot. Despite distortion and the heavy drums,
I know they mean the words. I hear it in the way
the singer pushes every note until it almost breaks.
The part about the sailors and the voices makes me
hurt a little, especially if it’s late and I’ve been
drinking. Every time I hear this song, it feels like I’m
remembering a promise I made when I was younger.
Two years ago, exhausted with insomnia, I flipped around
until I found a lonely, rerun station on the television.
I heard some joke by Kermit, laughed out loud, and said
“That’s goddamn funny.” I spoke as though the puppet
were alive and cared about my thoughts. I spoke as if
the man who gave him life was still alive, and heard
my poor, inadequate attempt at compensation.
