Talk-box,  squawk-box . . . The other day
I found an antique wireless
in a local jumble sale,

the lacquer scared, the dial stiff
and grating, the entrails scarcely contained
by the duct tape plastered across the back.

But could it work? I turned a knob:
a valve glowed orange, a whooshing noise
conjured the void, then a male voice spoke

clear and authoritative, not the words
I'd half-expected (". . . consequently
this country is at war . . . ") but instead

"Ireland returns to world markets,
Taoiseach rules out default on bonds,
Health service closures cripple nation."

I turned it off, and tried a helmet on