Radio Station Son Poem by Allen Blue

After the swing shift at the yard,
you'd sit on the couch,
with your shirt stained under the arms,
swearing that you were starting to rust away
like pieces of scrap forgotten in the grass.

Mom would then roll me out into the room
for you to treat me like a radio station.
I tried so hard to make my programs interesting
with good grades, homeruns, promotions,
anything to keep you from turning the station,
but I found myself being turned anyway.

And then there was one night, sometime in my twenties,
that I activated the Emergency Broadcast System,
because I needed your help to keep me on the air,
but you just turned the radio off
saying you couldn't listen any longer
to a broken son or psychiatric nonsense.

Eventually you rusted your way into a nursing home,
and alone on your last full night you turned the radio on
expecting to find a station that would tell you
your life meant something and past mistakes were forgiven,
but that programming was canceled long ago;
how did it feel to die with only my static in your ears?