Mention My Name for the Discount

Our main A.M. station sounds faraway,
the voices of the drive-time hosts
cloudy and makeshift, like a bad
recording of a bad recording.

They’re talking about panhandlers
who work the highway entrances,
the sadness of it all, and the fear
they may carjack instead of beg.

My ears are pricked when one host
breaks off to shill for a company
that builds patios, her spiel
chatty and confidential, as if she’s

a hitchhiker in the passenger seat
who’s sharing affordable bliss.
The radio keeps coughing up static,
and I want to cough it up too.