like guitar strings, romance
indistinguishable from passion
mixed on dance floors, soda fountains,
Mercury make-out cars, and seedy
drive-ins where we paraded our innocence
amid a blacklisting world gone mad
with fluoridation, police action generals
sharpening viper-like teeth on television
broadcasts, conspiracy theories—and the onslaught
of electrical gadgets to replace simple tasks
with plug-in promises; I look fondly on those
nights making calls to friends, confirming
movie plots, arriving home with stories
to tell parents—omitting spoilers—resting up
for next week’s convertible theatre tour de force.