Please, Not That Again

William Trowbridge

How burdensome they seemed, wartime

oldies that could drive our parents teary:

“I’ll Be Seeing You,” with its hint

of being swept off in a global riptide;

or the shaky follow-up of “I’ll Be Home

for Christmas,” followed by a shakier

“Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree

(with Anyone Else But Me),” “Comin’

in on a Wing and a Prayer,” or “Ac-

Cent-Tchu-Are the Positive.” We suffered

them on the old cathedral radio, crooned

by Crosby and Sinatra, had to watch them

strangled on The Lawrence Welk Show

or laced with Como’s heavy dose

of sedative. Dad told us, “Straighten Up

and Fly Right.” Mom hummed, “Keep

the Home Fires Burning”—till our music

cut the cord. Brash and free of corn,

it hailed rock ‘n’ roll, caught Maybellene

at the top of the hill, moaned “m’ baby-doll,

m’ baby-doll, m’ baby-doll.” We played it

loud and often, but they never understood.