I conjure NBC in black-and-white.
You drop dry ice in water; fog is rising.
You sell us Celsius and Fahrenheit.
I lose you in a cloud of advertising—
Winston, Esso, Zenith, Mr. Clean,
those thirty-second breaks for Ovaltine—
then smile at Bunsen burners and balloons,
more ropes and pulleys. You are mesmerizing
as familiar things become surprising.
I dream of robots, rayguns, Mars and moons,
and know that someday Chevrolets will fly.
POOF! Static. I can't make your show go on.
Space shuttles fall; the pumps are running dry.
Jihadists shop for warheads. . . Godspeed, Don.