"In . . . "
"In . . ."
1959, this poem, with its perfect DA
and its Chesterfields rolled up in its t-shirt sleeve,
would have pulled its Chevy up in front of your house
and honked its horn for you to come out,
and opened the door for you and your poodle skirt from inside,
making your parents more than a little nervous
as it gunned the engine and the worn-out glasspacks
growled away down the street
like a troubled rumble of distant thunder.
This poem would have rushed you out past the city limits
to the drive-in over the river and helped you into the back seat
and out of your poodle skirt and joined you
in fogging up the windows while teenaged werewolves
silently pursued their own passions unregarded
outside those windows in the damp darkness.
In other words, this poem would have poured out
all those passions for you that I would have
if it hadn't been 1959 and we hadn't only been 14
and I hadn't been scared to death of your father
and, to come right down to it, you.