by Jeanne Sirotkin
an elderly poet called it that
the golden age of promiscuity
a little window between
“Leave It to Beaver” and AIDS
we heard echoes of ourselves
everywhere we turned
in Technicolor, in day-glo
brighter than life
a golden age, all that glitters, we thought it was
brighter than life
we glowed
and spun until our hearts beat
in our throats
and nirvana was just out of reach
yet close enough
its salty breath clogged our pores
touch me and it felt so good
touch you and the possibilities
expanded out and out and out
beyond our bodies, our homes,
beyond sunrise or sunset
oh wanton age – easily come
and so easily it goes
the golden age
a tickticktick
no one noticed the ticking
winding up, winding down
the window merely a crack in a door
opened for a moment
until the wind blew it shut.