Four Tops, Booker T and the Mg’s; the
oldies of then and of now again, in this
magical place where that supercone sits
in its frosted fluorescence, atop the bright
Warm air, hot nights under the ceiling of
starlight, and smells of brine and Bacardi,
sweet as the syrup they’d pour on the
floats and the sundaes, as we’d sit on those
red picnic tables, with the awnings of blue
ribbon plaid, by the sidewalk where forget
me knots popped through the asphalt, where
you’d spin me ‘round twice, when my new
favorite song came on, back when we were
seventeen, and again today, forty years later.
When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame and drawing with charcoal. She volunteers in animal rescue. Living by a beach town, provides much of the inspiration for her art. During the many down time hours of the Pandemic, she developed a passion for birding and now leads a group in her neighborhood park, every other Saturday. Some of her poems have appeared in Literary Yard, WSriting in a Woman's Voice, Rat's Ass Review and other journals.