When Smokey Sings
To get past the door to the Top Rank
disco every Saturday afternoon
you needed a suit, so mine
was a lifeless grey, a cast-off,
with narrow lapels that even then
I knew had never been fashionable.
Once in, you were lost to darkness,
until your eyes adjusted,
bumping around the outer tables,
where you searched for mates
who talked big and smoked,
nursing Pepsi Colas.
In class we had learned
from Brother Vergilius, confused
and sheepish as we were,
about the risks involved in kissing,
how one thing might lead
to another, but somehow never did.
In the end the music got you
– Muscle Shoals, the Motor City –
making moves in a circle
next to a circle of girls.
Above it all the mirror ball
became your ruling planet.