the shakes.
Kristen Brida

I know why post-world war mothers smothered
their hands over their children's eyes
when elvis popped up on the television box,
took a microphone in his hand,
and thrusted his pelvis at them,
like he was a salesman at a pocketbook kiosk. 
Mothers didn't want them to see
teenyboppers rioting
to shake the american dream off their hips,
the women all slobber at his junk, 
concealed in silk white bellbottoms
as it took over the screen. 

It cradled between his thighs like
the clasp of a church bell in a steeple, 
only sounding off when the sky was black,
and the town's priest was asleep.