Every Saturday at noon we sat in front of the RCA
watching American Bandstand. At times we joined
in the fun, doing the twist and jitterbug until
gasping for breath we dropped to the orange shag.
That day was no different, except for the rain
pouring down on the roof like a bathtub faucet.
Mom and Dad sipped on Mimosas while playing
honeymoon bridge at the kitchen table. Sausage
sizzled on the gas stove like Jiffy popcorn,
twisted cigarette smoke into hot grease signals
while we danced along with Dick Clark, oblivious
to the spark that would soon chase us into the rain.
Imaginary Garden with Real Toads A Word with Laurie
Poets United Thursday Think Tank