Grown Up

When I was a boy
And my mother
Ruled the airwaves
With absolute prohibition

Against what we called
Rock and roll
And she called, so
Anachronistically,

"That jazzy music,"
As in, "Turn off
That jazzy music, now!"
My sibs and I

Convinced her
That country music
Was close kin to gospel,
Inbred even,

And then turned on
The poppiest, peppiest
Country radio we could find,
Loud as the knob would allow.

Inevitably, some tune
Would come on too heavy
In its backbeat, too raunchy
In its lyrics to pass

My mother's righteous ear
Unnoticed, and we'd rush
To either defend the song
("It's only country!")

Or, when in doubt
Ourselves, turn it down.
One song, however,
Not country at all,

Just seventies pop
And smarmily racy,
Never registered with her
No matter how loud.

It was a stupid song,
One even we kids didn't like,
Much less understand,
Nonetheless it was safe

And we sang, brazenly
Off-key, the chorus,
"Sky-rockets in flight!
Afternoon delight!"

I think of that silly bad song
Today, on a sunny afternoon,
When a spring wind puffs
White bed curtains. How true.