juke party elegy
BY NATE MARSHALL
first of all,
all of our knees are suspect as politicians.
politicians have made hay out of our bodies;
bodies displayed & splayed out in various stages of unmaking.
unmaking as wardrobe or lifecycle or moment of silence to forget.
forget them though i’m talking today about us,
us who been in basements or skating rinks with no skates.
skate parties at their end or kid rinks turned into dancefloors.
floors unwaxed but sweat & body made slick.
slick talk spilled from tall tees until a cell phone clip is freed.
freedom to take numbers & dances until mama called mad
mad you ain’t picked up. but ain’t no good service underground.
grounded wasn’t the word though, it was on punishment.
meant to call but didn’t don’t count like 3 numbers on a pick 4
for the right dance of soft velour on denim starched hard
hard to say it ain’t worth mama’s backhand.
hands on your knees like a part of a prayer
prayer in this case was maybe to something other than God
God damn i miss it though. it was a thrill.
thrilling to want & hope you were wanted.
wanted sometimes to avoid parties because crowds
crowding meant maybe a fight or worse.
worse now it might mean i catch something bad
bad but not even in the fun way.
