you were nervous then
watching shy jailbait
catholic schoolgirls
walk round and round
earth’s plywood tabletops…
watching us
you grinned like a fool
as we feigned
initial interest
in the soft-shelled chapbooks
piled around…
from the corner stack
we tucked our copies
of the LA free press
under our arms
for an added effect
of cool…
we knew something
was off..
instead of
‘break on through
to the other side’
blaring
and richmond grinning
or glaring
from behind the
counter,
a piano concerto
fell softly from
the mounted teac speakers…
this old guy
instead
was minding the store…
your yellowed, white short-sleeved
rayon
had a stain or two
dead-center
your greasy hair
was slicked back
with pommade or vaseline
and reeking of brews
you chain smoked those unfiltereds
one right after another
lookin’ uncomfortable
and lecherous
like somebody’s
perverted gramps
left minding the store…
later you remembered
and wrote a poem
about schoolgirls
with lickable ankles…
thirty years later
i read that line
and blushed
remembering
those chapbooks
you sold me that day
and smiling
at such
an ancient memory…
Reblogged this on Shadowdance and commented:
… this, pre-adoration by the masses….steve richmond and the groupies were the singular true fans in those days..