Announcer

For one writer, the radio

Playing on his kitchen counter,

Something like fifty years ago,

Was the voice of a true doubter

That didn’t fill but tore a hole

In quiet for future’s power

To invade, like a cold wind blows

Through any chinks it encounters.

Tomorrow! roared the radio,

Any lone pulse that still flounders

Will belong to someone who knows

Invention operates downward.