A Poem

By Al Mcclimens

I’m old enough to remember the eight-track
cartridge. That carbon dates me, takes me back,
like reverse gear in a teenager’s Mini 1275
GT (yes, this is an old song). You were alive,
just. But the world was a different place back then,
in all kinds of ways -pre-internet, prelapsarian,
pre her with the fancy house near the village
that had been on the telly and the three-car garage
and the taste in music a twelve-year-old might
have danced in her underwear to.

I blush to admit

it but some of that really happened. So, pardon
me if my Spotify playlist betrays the occasion.
no, no offence taken. I’m sure it was well-meant.
and like the chanteuse said, I’m not that innocent.