WHEELS by Tom Lyford 08/2011
Johhny and the Hurricanes’ neon pennywhistle pile driving
“Red River Rock” into the electric dark, pumping it through the
trundling thunder of a thousand fiberglass wheels grinding like
sea-polished stones beneath this regatta of seniors and sophomores
and seventh-graders in plaid skirts and Madras shirts, in shorts
and skorts and pink pedal-pushers whisking past the concession…
the prom king and queen, the Sandra Dee and James Dean wannabe,
and all the rest of us lonely wallflower don’t-wannabes, wafting up
a tailwind, our wakes musked in coconut oil Coppertone, Off, and
Right Guard… gusting little sea breezes stiff enough to feather bangs
or flutter cowlicks… all of us being swept downstream and away to
the pavilion’s far end and back again, carried on a rip tide wheeling us
round and round, the white skates, the black skates, the expensive and
the hand-me-down skates, and the hundred scuffed, over-the-counter
rentals freshly fumigated in anti-foot-fungals; all the summer-sun-
bronzed limbs coming and going, going and coming, and all of
us handsome and beautiful… tonight being everyone’s personal
teen-dream summer movie starring the little, lonely-hunter hearts
pinned to our sleeves, and each of us with the finger-crossed prayer
for that big Happy Ending when the final credits start to roll…
Johhny and the Hurricanes’ neon pennywhistle pile driving
“Red River Rock” into the electric dark, pumping it through the
trundling thunder of a thousand fiberglass wheels grinding like
sea-polished stones beneath this regatta of seniors and sophomores
and seventh-graders in plaid skirts and Madras shirts, in shorts
and skorts and pink pedal-pushers whisking past the concession…
the prom king and queen, the Sandra Dee and James Dean wannabe,
and all the rest of us lonely wallflower don’t-wannabes, wafting up
a tailwind, our wakes musked in coconut oil Coppertone, Off, and
Right Guard… gusting little sea breezes stiff enough to feather bangs
or flutter cowlicks… all of us being swept downstream and away to
the pavilion’s far end and back again, carried on a rip tide wheeling us
round and round, the white skates, the black skates, the expensive and
the hand-me-down skates, and the hundred scuffed, over-the-counter
rentals freshly fumigated in anti-foot-fungals; all the summer-sun-
bronzed limbs coming and going, going and coming, and all of
us handsome and beautiful… tonight being everyone’s personal
teen-dream summer movie starring the little, lonely-hunter hearts
pinned to our sleeves, and each of us with the finger-crossed prayer
for that big Happy Ending when the final credits start to roll…
