lauren bacall a diamond in space

a true story, not a ramble.
not a bit of falseness.
not a fairy tale, because fairies don't exist.
(i told you this was a true story)
with escalators and fanny-packs,
bags of toys and weird candies.
i was only 13, and he was 14.
we didn't know what classics were made of.
we didn't know what, what, what, am i even saying?
we knew what classics were, classics were the Spice Girls,
Nirvana and Sophie Hawkins.
But, we were right in front of Lauren Bacall,
surrounded by security guards,
we didn't know what classics were made of.
a mink scarf, and a snazzy white sparkling dress.
that's what a classic is made of.
she spoke beside the carosouel, right next to the escalators.
we had fanny-packs and bags of sweets and treats.
she was only 74, and i was only 13.
and the floor was wet, with drool from the 75 or so seventy-five-year-old-men
that came to see their past lust, their past dream girl.
now with a wrinkled face, small reading spectacles,
dainty lace gloves, a model.
but, not washed up.
we turned and left, because we didn't know what a classic was.
we didn't know what an idol could mean,
we just took out our velcro wallets and spent another dollar on arcade game,
or a red ball, to bounce as we walked around,
riding the escalators and with fanny-packs,
bags of toys and weird candies.
i was only 13, and he was 14.
and we saved for weeks to buy that one cassette tape,
but we didn't know what classics were.