Wedge of Blacktop, Saturday, 1955
By Paul Scollan
All they could wish was this wedge of blacktop
by the back-porch stoop of this matchbox cape
in this shirt-cling evening of a dog-day swoon,
the breadloaf radio set out on the rail,
the longneck beers, dead soldiers on the stairs,
Blanche kicking high in her grease-stained dress,
her great girth tweaking like she's traveling light,
Chaz winging free right into tomorrow in
his busman's pants, his spit-shined shoes,
a sleeveless top, sweet jazz in his moves
to the toot of Duke in "It Don't Mean a Thing,"
and a switch of the dial to slow it all down
to arms ringing round to doo-wop sounds could
roll honey up the hill of the house next door.
Source: http://antrimhousebooks.com/scollan3.html
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