The Old Man And His AM Radio

One old man

When he is around

He’d sit by the porch

A cup of tea in his hand

In an idle afternoon

While the scorching sun

Retires after burning rice paddies

Mountains, dirt roads, and faces

At times it leaves torrential rain

That reminds us of its promise

It’s sure to be back in the morning

But what I remember oh so vividly

That while he sips his bitter tea

He’s all ears on the stereo

Not on music stations

But tuned in on A.M radio

I didn’t understand

His penchant for the agony of twiddling thumbs

With the occasional curses

Murmurs, smirks, and grunts

About politics in all its

Nobility, hypocrisy, and bullshitry

It was a mystery how he could bear

Listening to news

On what transpired from within and without

And listening to the host

And repetitive commercials

Peddling lies and whatnot

But he didn’t mind

Just looked far away

With the all-familiar grin

What he labelled as circus

Worked out fine for him

Almost three decades passed

No longer do I see him

In the rain nor setting sun

Nor his hot cup of bitter tea

That cools him down

But something remained

Which transcended him and his life

As I sit with headsets on

To the AM radio tuned

Murmuring

Grunting

More generous in my cursing