Prom Night

Limos roll up to the carpetted curbs and belch
the ladies from the right rear doors, little
ladies in big hair and spaghetti straps, each
dolled up about as the rest but each entirely

their own.  And the boys emerge in ill-fitting
tuxes, with patent shoes for looking up
the dresses, a few in sneakers making
their mark, and the evening sparead out

against the sky like a panting couple
fumbling and mumbling across the back seat,
sly little burps and chilling breath and
the need or the necessity for these moments

obliterating in single blows the charm and the
meaning of civilization, freeing up
the inner selves and the swirling hormones, giving up
the outer crust, the ego’s ghost.

5-9-95