Big Star

He was on the stage, lights shining on his golden hair,

spangled shirt shooting stars into adoring eyes;

jeans tight,

boots polished,

voice as smooth as ancient silk,

sliding and caressing every word,

fingers stroking sweet

notes out of his battered guitar.

And she was there, swaying with the music,

swooning with all the other under-thirty women

who crowded the stage, pulling their tops low to show

their cleaving, heaving breasts, tongues out and licking

pink, pink lips while they screamed and waved and danced

slow gyrating circles, begging his approval.

He saw her all right, she the one with the raven hair,

the black black eyes and legs that disappeared in mystery.

She met him at the back door after the show, falling

into his arms and lust that carried them both

down road after road, through town after town

for twenty-odd years and then

he was pushing seventy

and she was forty and seeing

the gold dye gone from thin gray hair,

the bent and gnarly fingers stroking only the cigarettes

he smoked one after another, lighting the next from the butt of the last.

Her hair still black with help from Miss Clairol, her figure trim

in tummy control pants and push-up bras,

she wonders where the time went, and the Big Star

in baggy pants,

watches CMT and Nascar and waits

for the calls that never come.


Inspired by a writing prompt.

About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
This entry was posted in NaPoWriMo, People, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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