The Beatles. I couldn't hear their lyrics but
it didn't matter. All the girls
knew the words more intimately
than they knew their periods.
I kept waiting for the thing
to end, my date's perfume thicker
than Daly City's fog. I leaned
against her. My hand measured
her waist. PAUL, she screamed.
A man inside a gorilla suit
had a better chance than I had.
How could a boy with pimples,
his face greased like a mime's,
cuddle up with Brenda? Sweet
scents clung to my grungy shirt.
Girls were more mysterious
than geometry, with better angles.
I was confused, but motivated.
I vowed I'd learn to play guitar.
It was that or become a mime.
I'd stand on stage, bobbing
my head like a pigeon's,
singing into a high voltage mike.
Why should I be denied
some dignity? For now
I smiled, weaving to the music,
as if mastering tai chi. A
slow contortion, an effort
to be hip, as Brenda wrapped
her arms across her chest.