The last picture show

The last picture show

I know who shot

Liberty Vallance

How many planes returned

From busting the dams

Counted the hours down to High noon

With my dad

Upstairs in the Empire

It was magical

The flickering light

Coming over our shoulders

Smoke curling up through

The darkness

How inoffensive it all seemed

At the time

On a Saturday morning

All the kids fought

To sit in the front row downstairs

They cordoned off the circle

Afraid a kid would think they were Batman

Or Tony Curtis wielding the Black shield of Falworth

He was a hoot in “Some like it hot”

We kept a weather eye out

For empty Kia-ora cartons

It was such a foul drink

But made a very good projectile

Boys sat with boys

Girls sat with girls

Growing up was a gradual change

Measured by where in the cinema

We were allowed to sit

The back row was forbidden

For juniors

We all heard stories

Of erotic shenanigans

I barely understood

Being a youngblood

The reality turned out

To be a fumble less than frantic

Closer to misogyny

Than romance

More a grapple than a dance

Too many boys got a slap

For it to be a coincidence

If the girl was not in charge

As she should be

Even in those days

She had a friend

With a good right hook

It was better by far to stay home

And read a good book

But not ‘Lady Chatterley’

Which was banned

Kenny Oxnard had a copy

Some of the pages were

Stuck together

I never knew why

Until now

I guess I was a late developer.