The hi-fidelity stereo crackles.
The Saturday gathering enters
Victor Loose’s Manor Hall dorm room.
He is hot for the new artist, Donovan
Whose sleek music could unravel
A green onion without breaking a strand.
Posters of pop singers and rockers
Besmirch the walls.
Joe Flick and Nose Pick are seated on the sofa,
I am perched backward on a chair, a
Green-tailed Towhee singing for my supper.
Barqs root beer in hand,
We are in anticipation of one song.
The needle drops and Mellow Yellow
Slinks about the nervous system
Light surfing in husky yogurt.
Swooping into action,
Joe Flick goes berserk on his phantom guitar.
Nose pick chants oh yeah woo woo O baby . . .
Victor is hip and proud of his honed physique.
His chest is robust, a buffalo on green pasture.
He boasts, what I don’t have on my head,
I have transplanted to my chest.
His mind clamps on information like a bear trap.
Few people question his accuracy,
Those that dare walk away a wimp noodle.
He irons his khakis, he’s no lackey,
He maneuvers poplin cotton with panache.
All the while, he mimics Donovan.
A cry goes up, let Donovan sing.
He pauses with a mozzarella smirk
And resumes boisterously.
This kid has more swagger than
Elvis crooning, I’m All Shook Up.
The air lightens, we walk on the ceiling.
We clamor for more Mellow Yellow.
Victor lifts the needle
Coaxes it down on black satin.
One more pair of khakis, he lays down a crease,
Smooth – – like ruby lips on lover’s lane.