Going Nowhere
Slow motion memories.
Street lit like a movie set,
outside the dance hall.
Muffler-less cars,
full throttle, then eerily quiet.
Self willed machines idling along the street,
flooding the night; flashing eyeballs,
headlining teenage girls.
A sashaying crush; glancing, giggling,
disdainful in stinging beehives,
plastic jackets, high gloss paint and oily pants.
Cruising crass flash
false virility in high gloss paint.
James Dean on Sunset Strip.
Hands on the stick shift; giving themselves the gears.
skinny boys glancing in the mirror, where dice and kewpie dolls hang,
squinting at astigmatisms of Steve McQueen on hunk steroids.
Nervous to fingered combs slink through their hair,
checking out the rear end drive,
outside the dance hall on a Friday night.
A curly haired boy,
red faced brother of my best friend, never owned a car,
pushes forward in the street,
to talk with sister and friends.
Asked a girl for a kiss.
Too easily dismissed.
In the science lab; class dismissed.
Counters gleam grade A sterility.
Chemicals stare coldly from spotless beakers.
Put his mouth over the gas jet.
A curly haired boy,
going nowhere on a Friday afternoon.
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