Memories of a Child of the Age of Radio

I am sitting in my room on my favorite place:

the dark cobalt and burgundy rug,

which my Mom called “the lint-catcher,”

the rug which I called “my magic carpet.”

The radio is on

and I feel the goosebumps rise

as the theme music

for The Shadow starts.

Even though I know

it’s not for real,

the creaking door transports me,

trembling and listening,

with my eyes closed,

to another place, another time.

Now I am immersing myself

as the voice menacingly rasps,

“The Shadow knows. Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh.”

I want to know what the Shadow knows,

but I’m afraid even to find out.

If I had known then what I know now,

I probably would have

made myself pursue the craft

of script-writing,

and I would have started

to think about how

someday, one day,

I’d hear my words coming over the airways.