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February 3, 1959
“Dis is da Wolfman,”
Whispers the tiny transistor radio
Into eager ears beneath the covers,
Trusty official Boy Scout flashlight
Lights that exciting, enticing centerfold
Illuminates every sensual curve
I seduced by her sultry silence,
My boyish innocence pilfered.
“Buddy Holley’s Dead,”
The radio whispers.
I turn up the volume
Hoping my mother was asleep.
“Buddy Holley’s dead!”
“Buddy Holley’s dead!!”
The radio blares.
I quickly silenced the radio
Hoping against hope the stillness
Would keep Buddy Holley alive,
At least until dawn.
About to work on a poem of my
About to work on a poem of my own about this date, I turn to the work of a greater poet and read this, which gives far mroe of the emotional edge of the event than the historical accounts that I have hitherto read. This poem is even superior to McClean's "American Pie," which, after the dance scene and bronco buck in a pick up truck, tends to distance the events in the plural first person rather than the individual first person, as this poem does. This is the readers' "go to" poem to find out what that night felt like.
Starward