by Linda Straub
Mother wore an off the shoulder dress
that swirled ’round her slender waist
and kissed a starched crinoline.
Father’s hair was ebony black,
a series of soft waves rolling down
his scalp, breaking on a rocky spine.
I sat in the back of their ’57 Chevrolet
eating popcorn and watching
James Dean on the Drive-in screen.
A squadron of speakers hung
from car windows where crackling
voices of movie stars faded in and out.
Sleep snuck up from behind
and stretched my weary body
across the wide back seat,
where my last sight
on that Summer’s night
was my Father’s wavy hair
dressing my mother’s bare shoulders.