Saturday Morning Ritual

Sally Anne Powell,
barefoot and in pink pedal-pushers,
after a breakfast of Wakey-Wheats,
would take the tools of her trade,
drawing the eyes of Apple Street,
becoming the Saturn of her universe;
new planets would form from her mouth,
only to explode like a star.
Her narrow hips would sway to the music
like that of a rock-rattle-and-rolling Lolita.
It was every day that summer of ’59
she would prove to her small-minded world
that yes, this intellectual flyweight
could hula and chew gum at the same time.

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