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HELEN HAGEMANN
The Ozone
Café
- I was there in the summer of ’65
- my other self, a little younger in the
crowd,
- distinguished looking in pedal-pushers
and
- burgundy rinse. I posed when the Café
was
- empty, but basically it was pimples,
splotchy
- skin, looking for a boy, definable mainly
- by my nervous habit of floor-gazing every
time
- a bronzed surfer walked in.
-
- Years later, I couldn’t face my old
haunt,
- demolished for cars, our happy days Café
gone
- to ground. It was pin-ball machines, ivy
mirrors,
- hamburgers, real meat. Hollywood, a
walled America,
- a doe-eyed Gable on the screen. James
Dean had that cute
- mimetic look. Marilyn imploded crystal
pleats, inveigling
- her sweet act of tease. And Greta Garbo,
well,
- she had that arching eyebrow we all hoped
for as kids.
-
- In red-buttoned seats, all us girls, as I
remember,
- tittered like twits, kids high on salted
take-away chips,
- ice-cream sodas cooling January heat.
- We spoon licked thick-shakes frothed up
in metal,
- spun the jukebox to make Elvis rattle.
Some days
- it was moon-honey-love right down the
back, with
- the Greek owner’s chastising finger
waving about.
- You should have seen that quick release
of
- a table hand squeeze.
-
- I don’t know how to keep from
spilling this,
- but we made love in our younger dreams,
the sixties
- no different to now, except in our town
- streets bounced us quickly towards
adulthood
- on a seamy Valiant seat.
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