Behind the Saturday dance hall
pulling a drag off his cigarette
hair swept into a perfect ducktail,
I watched longingly from the shadows.

The school 'bad boy'.
A senior skimming through with D's
Not one to look for a freshman like me
no longer a colt, not yet a filly either.

But how my heart fluttered
as he lit his next cigarette,
hands cupped, cradling the flame.
grinding out the old butt
with a twist of his loafered heel.
Too cool to blow smoke rings
like the crew-cutted show-offs inside.
To cool to dance.

The music changed,
melting into the night.
Bill Halley finished,
the slow ones began;
Drifters, Platters, the Shondells.
Songs to cling to a boyfriend by,
stealing a kiss under the strobe
when the chaperone glanced away
How I longed to sway in his arms,
hear him murmer sweet words
pull my thin body to his.

Tammy dating James Dean
about the same probability.

A red-lipped senior stepped 
out of the darkness
Not a townie, known to be loose
He threw his arm around her,
gave her 'my' kiss.
Tears barely held back
I ran, arms clasped 
over my triple A chest.

As the juke sang its goodnight song,
I heard the roar of his chevy
gravel flung behind in its wake.

The Greaser, they called him.
Gone.
Swept up by the night.

Pris Campbell
11/3/2000

Accepted for publication in The Dead Mule,
an Anthology of Southern Literature, Spring 2003

Music: Goodnight My Love

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