December 1964.
The lights dim.
You've Lost That Loving Feeling
slow dances off the forty-five.
I stand alone on the side with others like me,
Wanna-be's, sweet punch of the sweet sixteen's
growing warm in our hands.
On the dance floor the popular girls nuzzle up
with chosen jocks, two-stepping in time,
as if it all had been rehearsed.
I watch with envy, my lips mouthing the words,
my body anxious.
Afraid someone might ask me to dance,
afraid someone won't.
All the while feeling awkward, peculiar,
uncomfortable in this pretense
of having a good time.
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