By Trista Dominiqu
When my mother would lay
my brother and I down at night
in her old teenager’s room, the last
thing I saw before closing my eyes
was Bruce Springsteen in jeans.
His backside was the picture to her
lullabies. Handkerchief out of his
back pocket, I’d hear my mom
sometimes whisper, “What a fine
piece of man.”
Brucie she called him as if she knew
him personally. Rewarding us with a
quarter if we could name his song
when it came on the radio.
He was the boss who ruled my
childhood airwaves, tumbling
around with Cyndi Lauper and
Madonna, playing in my mothers
She’d get dolled up. Fixing those
bangs up high, putting on black
nylons over just shaved legs, calf
high leather boots the final touch.
Beautiful standing in her mirror,
next to Brucie.
A beauty that was hardly seen
outside of her teenaged room,
because we were holding onto
those high boots in the years
where she was supposed to be
Fixing herself, making herself look
pretty, just to dance with her babies
in Lynwood city.