Ted Powers
The Day I Met Phil Spector

 

Phil Spector is not a ghost. He is my friend.
Phil Spector made the wall of sound. Once
he held a gun on the Ramones. It came out
in the music. Once I held a gun, it was yellow
and it was a banana I pretended was a gun, and
I fired it three times. Phil Spector hates bananas.
Now I do too. Phil Spector thinks silence is easy
and I believe him. I do not believe him
when he tells me he likes my tie. I don't even know
how to tie a tie, but I can lace my shoes,
and I did yesterday and walked around New York
examining the claw marks left by Phil Spector.
There were none. He cleans up like a killer,
like a smart killer. Phil Spector is well-loved
for being a killer. Once, when he was younger,
he picked up his school bus and threw it into the school
parking lot. The gesture was much appreciated,
and the kids who survived learned twice as much
as usual. I am late for school. My bus relies on wheels,
which, I am four times informed, go round-and-round.
One day they will not, and I will clunk to school
happily. Until then, I paint stories on the windows,
epic tragedies about brave men fighting fire with
hand guns. I save my comedies for the glass coffin
in my basement. My basement is cold. When I am
there to draw or to fix my hair in the reflection
I put on a sweater, which makes me itch. Today
I scratch my neck and comb my hair in anticipation
of a teenage love song, the morning I meet Phil Spector.