the basketball game, or the double-feature
sandwiched between classes and curfews
and high school gossip-rag headlines…
back when all it took to play the game was
a little dab of Brylcreem, a good set of wheels,
and a class ring… when the wages of sin
were dickies to hide the hickies...
you taller virgin Bambi girls, with your two-
year jump-start on armpit-hair maturity
were the musical chairs round and round
which we coltish, ready-or-not boys danced
our flight of the bumblebee… making out
and breaking up with us… grinding our
hearts to hamburger, and leaving us
to those lonely, loved ‘n lost lyrics that
sang us into, and back out of,
those head-over-heels
havahart traps of
lustlove…