Tonight's Poet Corner: Verboten In The Fifties

Verboten In The Fifties
by Belinda Roddie

Here's how the scene is set: You arrive
in your pink Mustang, wearing your father's
leather jacket, your hair slicked up so high
that it's almost touching Heaven. I'll sashay down
from my room in my knee-length skirt, craving
milkshakes and banana splits that I'll only
share with you. We'll tell everyone that

Bobby from math class gave me the hickeys,
or that Sherman from biology got crazy with
me in the drive-thru. Just make sure that
you wipe off all the lipstick from your shirt
when I'm done with you, and I'll be sure
not to dig my nails into the backseat cushions
of your car after I've pounced on you like a fan
trying to attack Elvis at one of his concerts. If

they find out, we'll be institutionalized, I guarantee
it. I'm not interested in wearing a white gown in
a white room, and I don't think we want lobotomies
or to succumb to electroshock therapy. Maybe one day,
we'll snag one-way tickets to Hawaii, and you'll learn
how to play the ukulele, stealing kisses from me once
I get the vinyl records spinning. Maybe we can sit

together at a luau without judgment. And yet, here
we are, performing for our parents in the worst way.
Yes, we're the best of friends, and yes, we've got dates
to the prom, and while we dance the mashed potato,
I'll think of you in a tux instead of the boy who tries
to smash his mouth into mine. Forget the slobbering
men; I'll take a bad girl any day, and you're
the perfect kind of rebellion, so open the door to
your Mustang so we can finally drive away.