I never saw The Electric Horseman.
I was making out in the back with Mark,
my first real boyfriend, in the velvety
rocking seats in the expensive Glenwood
theatre in Overland Park; I never saw
the lighted cowboy suit or Robert Redford
kiss Jane Fonda. If he did, I didn’t care.
I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show
with him. He showed me what to do
and where to shout “No shit, Sherlock!”
and when to ask about the symptom
in antici—say it!—pation of Frankie’s
answer. The Bijou in Kansas City
reeked of dried semen and stale beer,
but I smelled Old Spice and wintergreen. Continue reading “Full and Plum-Colored Velvet | Anne Graue”