She listens to one of those morning radio shows,
FM dial in the 100’s. There’s three of them:
two guys trying to talk younger than they are
and a chick who’s function is
to act offended when their comments
verge on sexism.
20 minute block,
no music,
not even commercials
(and I hate commercials)
and the jokes all sound the same
and their voices all sound the same;
even the woman’s nasal tone. For all
anybody knows, it’s really just
one fucker with a voice modulator. Or
maybe they’re not even real – it’s just
one IT asshole with a computer
and a soundboard filling the silence
with something more noxious
than the morning traffic reports.
She’s getting ready for work.
I’m holding down my position
on the couch, trying to
block out the fake laughter. Now
they’re taking calls from listeners
who are probably all too real
who call in to air embarrassing stories
of getting dumped. (The worst story
gets free tickets to some concert
by somebody I’ve never heard of.)
The announcers laugh at all the callers
and hang up on them; yet they
keep calling on cell phones,
stuck in rush hour traffic
rushing headlong
towards a cubicle
in an antiseptic office
where the boss peers
over their shoulders and forbids
non-sanitized conversation.
At lunch, they will talk about
being on the radio and how cool it was
to be laughed at by famous radio personalities,
though the chickie did sound (just a little) sympathetic.
She turns off the radio and comes downstairs,
then pours her coffee, makes her lunch
and gives me a peck on the cheek. She
leaves, forgetting to lock the door behind her.
I sit and think about turning on the radio
just in case
she calls in on her way to work.
