If you need a reminder
of those tireless times,
open your window.
Take the sun’s hoot and rub it
on those Saturday night places.
Ripple like a drunken wasp,
bleat like a forked teenager,
blow that ink everywhere.
You remember
Saturday nights?
You remember
those moves?
Melting into Sunday is
for squares.
Don’t forget your kids – what account will you give?
When they ask you what it was like,
tell them the truth.
You knew the world
when it was young.