My father brought home
the first color TV on the block in 1959.
It was a monster of a thing—
a square, heavy wooden box on thick legs
with a relatively small screen—
flat on the top, curved on both sides—
and a row of round knobs to adjust
the volume and change channels.
Rabbit-ear antennae perched on top
and stretched across our picture window
like holy arms raised in hallelujah.
Word spread over the fences
about its arrival in our living room
and soon there was a line at the door.
A Polaroid in my photo album
shows the kids in our neighborhood
gathered on the floor in front of it.
Tinkerbell is waving her magic wand,
transforming a spill of black-and-white paint
into a wonderful world of color.
They gathered again for the annual viewing
of the Wizard of Oz to see Dorothy
step from her black-and-white house,
into the colorful world of the Munchkins
and the yellow brick road
leading to the sparkling, green spires of Emerald City.
This was progress.
There was nothing we didn’t dare to dream.
The golden, spotted leopards of Africa roamed into the room.
We swam the ocean with blue, humpback whales
and watched fire-red desert flowers unfurl in fast-mo.
The stars in the night sky
were strewn like white petals on black velvet
above a paddleboat on the meandering Mississippi.
We even came to believe
mankind could leap on our lovely, old-fashioned moon.
Christine Andersen is the author of “To Maggie Wherever You’ve Gone,” a chapbook from Choeofpleirn Press and the Distinguished Favorite of the NYC Big Book Award Contest. Her first full-length collection, “The Same Moon,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in the fall of 2026. She lives on a Connecticut farm with five hounds.
