By Mike O’Connell

i wear my wrinkles with pride.
i have rolled on some rough
roads, every jolt, squeezing
corrugated skin, to the surface
of the mirror. i smile, and a
clichéd old man squints back.
shit, i was doin’ the twist,
just a while ago. they called me
crazy legs, because i could
twist my feet up close to my ears.
looking back, i don’t think i’d
like to see that. i know, now,
that guy is still twistin’, sweating,
sticky in the georgia heat, and
that everyone he ever knew,
is still gyrating, on a dance floor,
layed out in a quanset hut built
on a reclaimed swamp,
snakes n all. trapped in a
monsoon of fleeing memories,
vibrating saxophones, activate
a forgotten tune, move the bodies,
insect like,
let’s twist again,
like we did that summer….