Kinescopes smudged gray and white
burn the screen like old dreams.
These are days for those old enough
to remember Dick Clark, standing avuncular
behind the podium, announcing the current hit,
or the next big one,
as kids began to prowl the floor
in poodle skirts, bobby socks,
skinny ties and plaid jackets,
bouffants and pompadours bouncing in time.
In the camera, movement is the color –
the Stroll, the Cha-cha, the Bristol Stomp,
couples with names like Carmine and Angela,
some regulars, some fresh-faced newcomers
picked from the gaggle of hopefuls
outside the West Philly studio.
The Catholic girls wear sweaters over their uniforms,
so the nuns won’t scold them in school tomorrow.
Inadvertently, they start a fashion trend –
girls all over the country look for the cool dickie collars
the kids on Bandstand wear,
unaware that they’re uniform shirts.

Now, years later, when they all get together
(most with grandchildren and Social Security)
they summon up good times and bad:
the fan clubs, teen articles, and the threats,
received while slammed against their lockers
by kids that didn’t think them “cool.”
Their sighs waft to that time and back again,
as someone resurrects a jukebox –
Frankie Lymon, Bobby Darin, the Shirelles.
They partner up in the old combinations,
gliding across the diner’s checkered floor,
all the way back to seventeen.

10/02/2002

Posted on 10/02/2002
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt