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My Radio Sounds Different in the Dark

Patricia Walsh

Have you twiddled with your knob yet?
Pass muster, consuming soundwaves.
Nothing goes past the dial
not even the remains of BBC World Service.

More music, less talk. A minimal bulletin
the same three songs fifteen times a day
provides a benchmark to measure mediocrity
a shiver of boredom evades the soundbyte.

Competing competition, a numbered caller
collects the loot, on virtue of a queued call
timing is of the essence, a tawdry question
speaks volumes, unlocks the treasure.

The magician calls upon the figurehead
of the hour that’s in it, to cough up the dough.
Have we time for a valid viewpoint?
Time bound to say what you really mean.

Improving my French with the dial
Stuck on AM frequency, an incomprehensible
punctured lip speaks the unspeakable
making sense for some, others a polyglot tirade.

The mind’s eye sated. Back to reading a book.
Wasting my time in listening to tat
Brain candy for the unwary, in transit
the DJ remains static, not rising above.

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