Airtime

Peter Mladinic

It was early evening. 

I was sick in bed

listening to the radio,

a talk show with this guy

talking about how he

took some girl out on a date,

stopped his car

twenty miles from nowhere,

and made her get out.

When he had nothing

she didn’t want him. Then, 

when he got cleaned up,

a new suit, a car

and a job, she came around.

I pictured greasy hair, a black

shirt, a yellow sports coat,

and on one side of his light

blue convertible in gold

pinstripes the words Guardian Angel. 

I think he was an ex-con.

Every word he spoke

to the talk show host

sparked by bitterness,

he told the host, a woman,

his life story, every word

from some empty place

inside him, so finally he

was empty and not

somebody worthy of radio

airtime.  This creep in sharkskin

with his bitter you didn’t

want me when I was nobody

so screw you now I’m somebody.

As if he slammed on the brakes,

unzipped his fly,  and forced

himself on each faceless listener,

that night when I was a child.

I remember nothing of what

the talk show host said.

I don’t remember the name

of the program or 

the illness that kept me

there awake in bed.

All I see is a dark two-lane

road, the kind that’s either

peace or terror to be on alone

with a pinstriped guardian angel.