Blasting Elvis and Buddy Holly
I rocked down Route 66 quashing
sleep with fists full of wide-eye wake-me-ups
--swished by wacky Wigwam Inns,
tore through insect tempests; flirted
with mini-skirted Marilyn's at roller-skating drive-ins
I was neon
I was come on
I was Major Betucan
My heart trembles
when
she anticipates then
jumps
with erotic abandon
my stroking
lightly the soft skin
between her
fingers
Roy J. Adams has been a short-order cook, a magician, a professor, a poet but
not a pirate. He has a black belt, paratrooper wings, a scuba certificate, an
honourable discharge, a driver’s license and a Philly accent. He’s touched
mountain peaks, ocean deeps and steaming jungle mud. He’s run for office and
for his life. A corkboard in his mancave is full of certificates from poetry
contests. His poetry’s been published in Canada, the U.S., the U.K, Malta,
India, Australia, Singapore and Ireland, the land his mother came from. He is
the author of a chapbook, a full book of poetry, and a history of the Tower
Poetry Society, the oldest continuously meeting local poetry association in
Canada.
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