We were cool weren't we - I'd left
home three years before, you tooled
us everywhere in your mom's white
Thunderbird convertible; she'd be hot
but we'd say we all have our crosses,
and keep on - showboatin' sisters
boogalooing up and down the strip.
Remember the Ebb Tide?
A motel's there now I think, but did we
drink and funky broadway
to Sam & Dave,
shingaling with Lou Rawls
until that untidy
night we were too loose and too
give a shit.
To Kill a Mockingbird book
reports, Manchild in the Promised Land
for fun, Kennedy was good
looking and we were friendly
with the band. We shook tail
feathers all over that strip, but
mostly at the Ebb Tide - 'cause they
would mention us over the mike and we
played pool 'cause we had balls; so
the white boys didn't worry us
if we played with the band.
I was a virgin, small breasted-
didn't want to be found out; your
brother broke you in early, and you
liked it, it - not him, remember?
The night we closed
the Ebb Tide, I passed out face
down on your pillow. The fumes
woke me the minute you came
in; your hysteria
had to be quieted
before your mom woke.
The saliva strung
from your pillow to
my groggy, gaping mouth;
I laughed crazily
but it was controlled panic
because that cross
you carried into the bedroom
was taller than we, dripping
from the kerosene-soaked
rags, wickedly covering it
thickly, completely;
it was made with care.
Your headlights made them all
run you said, but it stood erect
in the front yard - short
one match, and you had to tilt
it to clear your bedroom door.
Whatever did you do with it?
It seems the alcohol took
over where my adrenalin
stopped. I forget. I don't know.
I do know this. It was eerie
in your pink bedroom on your soft
quilt and pillow, stuffed
animals everywhere, to inhale
that reeking
fuel while you shrieked
for my advice. All I could do
was hush you;
your mom sent you to Florida
and I had to find some place.
