blaring twenty-four seven,
over daytime tv,
through scrabble games with grandkids,
over the barking of the dog,
and in the darkness when getting a drink of water,
by the light of the fridge door.
Constantly spurting talkback,
ever denying that silence,
that was the enemy of the seventies,
…always on, …always there.
One day soon the radio will blare no more,
I wonder if it will be me who turns it off,
or my father,
probably not my mother,
maybe a stranger,
in white with latex gloves, and orthopaedic shoes,
or in dark blue,
with a red hue,
flashing lights that will spill across the walls of my childhood,
while I sleep,
a little while away,
unawares that a call,
will soon, come my way.