Time to get a move on, ghostbusters—
Though the soda jerk’s a jack-off
In spotless white, Pop’s soda fountain’s still
A dark threat waiting round the corner,
His Wurlitzer bubbles wet dreams
Of youthful effervescence, it’s now or never—
The old gang’s dying to get back there.
Remember those little stick mechanisms with cardboard wheels that had four openings covered with four different colors of cellophane, and a grindstone sleeve on the axle that would rub against a nub of flint when you'd pump the stick's piston with your thumb? How more sparks would shoot out the faster you pumped? Well, that's what it's like reading this poem. It gathers speed from line to line—mesmerizing, delight on delight, look at those gorgeous sparks fly!
ReplyDeleteJoe,
ReplyDeleteYour description of this mechanism is intricate as well as charming and I wish I could say that I do remember such a splendid contraption but alas no sparks of recognition fly from the grey matter passing for my brain; fortunately there are still live wires like yourself who try to do liven me up with your comments--thanks again!
Can it be true that the first ripe, dewy seeds of the Family of Man were secreted in this magic box?
ReplyDeleteWe had a newer version of this magic box in the living room of our house in Raymond, Washington from 1954 to 1959 when my folks sold it and the house to return to the motherland. They used to spend their leisure time listening to old 78rpm Greek records my father bought in Tacoma and Seattle; of course, being an American teenager, I would have none of this and used to listen to 45rpm rock and roll records on my portable Motorola in my upstairs room. But things do have a way of sorting themselves out and I now have most of my dad's entire record collection on 10 cds--and they include some classic rembetika songs recorded in the US from 1913 to 1948--a priceless collection in more ways than one.
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