- I was there in the summer of 65
- my other self, a little younger in the
- distinguished looking in pedal-pushers
- burgundy rinse. I posed when the Café
- empty, but basically it was pimples,
- skin, looking for a boy, definable mainly
- by my nervous habit of floor-gazing every
- a bronzed surfer walked in.
- Years later, I couldnt face my old
- demolished for cars, our happy days Café
- to ground. It was pin-ball machines, ivy
- hamburgers, real meat. Hollywood, a
- a doe-eyed Gable on the screen. James
Dean had that cute
- mimetic look. Marilyn imploded crystal
- her sweet act of tease. And Greta Garbo,
- she had that arching eyebrow we all hoped
for as kids.
- In red-buttoned seats, all us girls, as I
- tittered like twits, kids high on salted
- ice-cream sodas cooling January heat.
- We spoon licked thick-shakes frothed up
- spun the jukebox to make Elvis rattle.
- it was moon-honey-love right down the
- the Greek owners chastising finger
- You should have seen that quick release
- a table hand squeeze.
- I dont know how to keep from
- but we made love in our younger dreams,
- no different to now, except in our town
- streets bounced us quickly towards
- on a seamy Valiant seat.