-the morning after Buzz went over-

so the tough guy's laying on his back

on the bed in his room with the fingers

of his hands entwined behind his head,

an un-lit cigarette pressed between his lips.

so he stares at the ceiling fixture
recalling the black and white movie he saw
and rock n’ roll's tuned-in at low volume
on the radio tabled at bedside.

so once in a while

the filter-tip of his cold cigarette is moved
with the aid of an adroit tongue to be clenched
between his teeth.

there, the cigarette wags up and down
keeping time to the music's beat.

the stubble of his fresh "german beezer" haircut
gives-way to daydreams of a greasy wave

sweeping back toward his neck

where Buzz's duck’s-ass would end

in its testament of youthful rebellion.

the bones of his young ribs push outward under his skin

and for as long as he maintains his tenacity,

he ignores the calls of his mother to go wash-up.

soon, he pockets the nabbed Winston for a later dream

and enters the kitchen where family sits at the table

and rock n’ roll music evaporates into the slow
atmospheric drawl of Today.