Transistor Clock Radio
(The Snows of 1969)
by Jack Fritscher
Long Michigander Days
I turn on the kitchen radio
to keep track of blizzard time
going into a room for no reason
going out of a room for no reason
I can’t smelltouchtastefeel the audio.
“The official airport temperature
is one eight; that’s eighteen degrees.
That’s the 10:55 news, and now—
You know it!”
The tone hums.
It’s the hour. 11 PM.
Silence (Can I hear it?)
The station jerks itself off crowing:
“CKLW Windsor!
THE BIG 8 JOCKS SOCKING IT TO YOU
24 HOURS A DAY; 50,000 WATTS BUT
SOUNDING LIKE A MILLION!
And now 4 in a row,
non-stop music from the station
that TURNS YOU ON!”
Somewhere out there
alone in his booth
the dickless-wonder jockey
gives the impression
of being a party,
stroking his antenna
with heavy beat,
sending his erect signal
out through the snow.
All that effort
when all I want
is to hear from him
the time
what time is it
trapping me snowbound
in the long rooms
of my silence
when all I want is
news snow plows
have cleared the lanes
of I-94 where men parked in rest stops
sit cruising in cars and trucks
tapping tail lights
in the red Morse Code of sex.