Time for your makeup Mr. Brown. Brown smiles

in the mirror at the girl dabbing foundation

on his ruddy cheeks. Red as the flag he follows.

Red as the faces of the fascists he will bring down

one day on live TV. He fantasizes about it.

The bright lights of the studio beckon and fascinate.

Seated at desk. He feels the whole world looking.

And it is. Shuffles his papers self-importantly.

Slight smirk. He looks the camera straight in the eye and speaks.

“Today…”

*

Scraping the muck off later that night he grins

in the mirror self-admiringly. Here for the partying

and the politics he’s come to realize that

the ladies and gentlemen of the press

are the last bulwark between us and them,

the last hurrah of moderacy in an immoderate world

the grown-up voice people will listen to and must.

*

Pours whiskey into an ice-filled tumbler and scrolls

through the channels streaming on YouTube. This one’s

about him. Skin’s ranting about Journo Brown:

all the hypocrisy he stands for. The show’s a phone-in.

A string of hate-filled voices crackle down the line. Heavy

on fry. Skin sagely nods as callers deposit

their crackpot theories on air. Grist for the mill.

Dutch courage installed, Brown grabs his cell and punches

the numbers ticker-taping across the bottom

of the screen. “Hey Skin! I guess you know me

though we’ve never met. It’s journo Brown!” Silence

for just one moment shy of awkward. And then,

as if at last he’d reeled a big fish in, “Good evening, sir.

It’s great to have you on the show”. Skin beams.