Cheryl

Six of us sway shoulder to shoulder
on a blanket a mile from the stage:
Don, Ziggy & Mick, Nancy & Phil.

 

A new band from San Francisco is playing,
Jefferson Airplane. Hazy pot smoke clouds
the park, but we’re sipping cherry Cokes.

 

Ziggy dances in a stretchy halter top,
ankle bells keeping time to “Tobacco Road.”
Mickey picks out rhythm on his guitar,
his strings solo singers.

 

Don and Nancy pay a visit to porta-potties
and Phil takes my hand, pulling me up.
“Wanna dance?”

 

“Okay,” I say.

 

His smooth moves are easy to follow
unlike the boxy steps I remember
from fifth grade cotillion class.
“When did you learn this?”

 

We’re palm to palm, a slow turn.
“My aunt teaches at Arthur Murray.”

 

Another spin, I trip on the hem of my
fringed jeans, trying to laugh, except I’m
crying and can’t stop.
“I don’t want you to die.”

 

He soaks up Signe Anderson, jazzy
in black leg-hugging leather boots.
“She sings like an angel.”

I shout over her mournful voice,

 

“Tell them you’re a pacifist.
Or flat-footed and a homosexual.
They don’t take homos.

 

Oregon, Washington, Canada.
A thousand miles maybe?
You could make it in a day.”

 

He kisses the tip of my sunburned nose.
“Sorry, honey. I’m not a traitorous wussy.”