The Drifters

Their lyrics sealed the promise
of August of ’59,
There goes my baby
movin’ on down the line.

I had a brown-eyed sweetheart
when I was seventeen.
Our worlds were far apart
and the Drifters fell between.

The mournful whine is silent;
the booming drum is dead;
the song has lost its power
except inside my head.

Would I be very different
from others turning gray
who marry good companions
and never rue the day

when I riffle through my files
where the dead events belong
and turn aside discretely
to touch a treasured song?