So where are they now,
The creaky floorboards of drug store soda fountains,
Stuffy too warm air wafting with pungent
Camel, Lucky and Pall Mall wisps?
Where now are the Bobby socked tarts,
Poodle skirt sluts and stuffed bras?
My kingdom for one frothy egg cream,
As I push aside the triple-layer corrugated cardboard
Dr. Grabow pipe display and stare at Debbie’s ass.
She puts out, ya know.
Slip banned covert copies of Ginsburg’s Howl,
And Kerouak’s On the Road…
Iconoclasts both, from my bookbag.
Read and dream and dream and dream
Of Debbie’s stretch pants ass.
The crackle of cherry-bomb glass packs
Echoing through the concrete corridor
Herald flame laden ’32 deuces and Low riders on
Trinity Street, sticky with melted afternoon tar.
Cousin Brucey growling out the Top Ten
And the smell of the magazine rack
Sweet Springtime perfume.
Where are the Rock-a-Billie strains of Duane Eddy
Commanding feet to dance?
Sharkskin Pants, True Romance?
Where is my youth, my innocence?
They’re On the Road
With Allen and Jack.
And they ain’t comin’ back.
Switchblades were the worst thing we had in these simple times.