Nikolas in Summer

as a boy
he carried everywhere
the small radio
                held up
                turned low
and somehow always managed
small bits of magic,
working the knobs,
zeroing in on Beatles' numbers--

it's all anyone ever managed to hear
as he passed and disappeared
into the day,
never speaking
but smiling to everyone,
soaking it all in, absorbed,
holding to his ear
a conch of his own creation.

he never said a single word to any of us,
of course there was no need--

it was warm and bright,
and even we understood
that some things
need no explanation.