Your Parents’ Music
Free verse
On a damp lick of strip mall asphalt, we stepped off the curb, left the cinema and agreed this film has shattered us, our suburban world was dead —
against a velvet summer sky the echoes of young voices fled
like figurines running from a house glued with sugar and built of gingerbread.
We half-joked, “That was deep.”
Later our refrain evolved: “That was deep like Purple Rain.”
Clad in faded denim and bright plaid with a Tarot deck in hand, I drew seven cupfuls of illusion and thought myself grown-up, and my pal didn’t have, I guess, a clue —
something about sex we thought we knew rained like fairy dust on our youthful heads.
I paid fifty bucks for the album Purple Rain last week because the scent of popcorn and a rainy parking lot chip away the years enough.