A snippet on a neighbor’s radio,
old Bowie cut,
the singer taking a “foxy kind of stand.”
“When you rock and roll with me,”
that one time scandalous phrase now tea cozy quaint.
My neighbor whose radio is rocking
this bit of antiquity
is no more than thirty. The song
is, as of today, forty-two. I’m in
my mid fifties, out
in the sun, a lizard in the heat.
“When you rock and roll with me:” I’m not
to recall that line first spelling sex to everyone,
but I know about it, and about sex of course,
the one once led to the other, and can recall how Bowie
scared so many and made it a little
to rock and roll with him, to rock and roll
like him. “I’m in tears again.” The neighbor looks
at me funny as I
turn away. I don’t know what he knows about
any of this — Bowie, rocking, rolling, sex,
nostalgia — but he must know
enough because he changes the station
and lowers the volume.