“Clap hands,” they said, “Clap hands
to the music,” and we all obeyed
that 50’s and 60’s band
that we might have followed anywhere–
out the door and across the street into the ocean
like geriatric children following a Pied Piper.
As we had when the music was new,
we gyrated and sweated,
bumped hips, jitterbugged,
did swing and wild improvisation
at Palapa Joe’s.
Joe himself barefoot at the keyboard,
a bookend to Denise at the drums.
And we? We are as hot
as this February night.
“Oh to be young again” is not in anyone’s vocabulary,
for we are teenagers again below the Tropic of Cancer.
In the ocean or in front of it,
sipping the sunset from tiny cobalt glasses,
watching children move toy trucks down sandy roads
of their imagination
and teenagers elfin in the surf.
The sun falling falling farther northwards every day
until that March day we waited for every year when it sank
directly behind the offshore island.
Snap. It is gone.
Double snap. So are we.
Here’s more of a photo story about Palapa Joe’s if you are interested:
The NaPoWriMo prompt was “double” and the WordPress prompt was “snap” so I combined them today…Here are links to those prompt sites in case you want to play along: