We squiggled and danced around
and the radio and the romance
until all the songs blew fuses
and the whole night crashed down.
We could hear that dark fall coming
down in the valley and up on the hill
whistles and the steel rail humming
buttered popcorn and bubble water.
At the Centinela drive-in theatre
in my ’56 Chevy hoping it would start
up again when the twiddle ended
under surveillance during the draft.
The Coming of the Toads 