(This started out as a much longer poem. I have edited, trimmed, hacked and cut much. There’s no place to add phtoos in the bar on the left. I will email to you separately. )

The Beatlettes

We’re only thirteen, infatuated
with the fan-frenzy on Ed Sullivan,
watching in black and white.
Paul, John, George, and Ringo
shake their radical, ear-length hair,
and personally
want to hold our hand,
want to hold our ha-ah-ah-ah-and
and we feel happy inside.

We form The Beatlettes, girl-band cool.
We are Paul-ette, John-ette,
Georg-ette, and I am Ring-ette.
I take my brother’s band class drumsticks,
mother’s hat box for a drum,
a stencil and blue Magic Marker
with that piercing smell, to inscribe
The Beatlettes on the drum.
Handmade cardboard guitars complete the ensemble,
Paul-ette makes sure to play left-handed.
We comb our hair forward, shake bangs over our eyes,
lip-sync to the 45s spinning
I want to Hold Your Hand,
I saw her standing there
All my Loving.

We practice on the front lawn,
cardboard drum balancing
on a wood chair from our dining room.
We take our show to Horace Mann Junior High,
perform for Mr. Kalkoske
who says he despises the Beatles.
In disgust, he watches us shake our hair,
strum fake guitars, thump a 4/4 beat,
as The Beatles blare from behind us.
Secretly, we guess that Mr. K
is putting on his own show.
For all his talk, we’re pretty sure
he feels happy inside too.