I laughed at Don Lockwood for dancing
out on the damp, dimly lit sidewalk
when I first saw him singing in the rain
just ‘cause he got kissed by some brown-haired babe,
but when I was walking home last night
after all the lights on eleventh had gone out,
I could hardly contain the skip in my step,
much less the whistle wrenched between my teeth
and as I came across a lone, flickering lamppost,
I embraced it wholeheartedly, as he had,
as though it were the one that had shot me full of electricity
and upgraded my black-and-white life to full Technicolor.
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