Progressive Rock Don Campbell The first swooned for "Poetry Man" in the Ahmanson balcony. The second wore a yellow sundress when she introduced me to her boyfriend; the Moody Blues got me through that. The third squeezed me in an elevator, in a parking garage; Frank Sinatra in her apartment. The fourth loved to snap fingers to "Brickhouse" in black underwear in my '63 Buick. The fifth spiked volleyballs and let me put George Harrison on her record player. I met the sixth in a Music Plus; she had Las Vegas legs and a 6' 5" co-habitant. The seventh drove with a calculatedly careless blue blouse button and Julio Iglesias in the car. The eighth's nipples imitated Carly Simon's "You're So Vain" cover. The ninth was blessed with adorable chocolate lips along with the desire to be a gospel-singing missionary. The tenth liked to mix beer and wine, put on the radio, and close her eyes to neck. The eleventh sported a Raspberry Beret, took it off; I spilled my Hot Chocolate. The twelfth dyed her hair red to match her freckles; I swear Jon Anderson's new song was "It's On Fire." The thirteenth danced disco, cut old boyfriends out of photos, and was really "not like other girls." The fourteenth said I reminded her of her great love, the piano player. Finally, a new moon beauty asked me the words for "From The Beginning."

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