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.




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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.