Mystery Theatre
for dad
The kitchen clock-radio
couldn't contain,
couldn't sustain the mystery.
After supper,
I flew through homework,
ready to race to the car
when you jingled the keys.
I waited
breathless
to share a universe with you
low on the FM dial.
Some nights
had the excuse of errands--
milk, toothpaste, ice cream.
You drove slowly.
Other nights
we sat
in the driveway
spellbound--
sounds
of creaking doors,
barking dogs,
breaking glass
transformed the car,
transported us
to New Orleans, 1952
or the London blitz.
I leaned forward
between the seats.
We eavesdropped together
while porch lights,
street lights winked on
up and down the block.
Thirty years later
I search the spectrum
and find talk radio
top forty
hip hop
classical.
Sometimes
in the static between stations
I think I hear the echo
of old magic.
4/2002