I guess I could put on my oldies playlist, to shake and shimmer, to pretend I'm far, far away
While the babies sleep inside their own cartooned sheets, they dream,
you know.
They dream of sugar and school and happy things.
While my mother dances away her worries, I pretend I'm far, far away
with her,
she is so beautiful. But it's hard to catch the tugged twirling of her skirts as she flies away the persistent "mom's!"
As she brushes off the teenage romance and angered, bloodied marks
As she shimmies off the consistent reminder of what could have been, without me.

And when the last unheard note of some Elvis' Burning Love echoes into empty sheets
I take the forgotten, nameless pleasure curdling in my stomach,
I slam it down into me as someone whispers,
I'm high as a kite; I just might stop to check you out! in my ear
I simply laugh at you and your invisible presence next to my open shades
And the feelings your leave lingering in the back of my calves
and thighs.

Oldies always make me think. And dance. And cry.