the summer of 68


half empty bottle of Boone's Farm apple
blue jeans soft with the scent of patchuli
he looked up at me, crumpled
the yellow sheet of notebook paper
tossed it back at my face

said i was a "fucking genius"
as if he had said i was a narc
then he got up from the shade of
the only tree around, snatched the poem up

smoothed the wrinkles against his thigh
handed it back and smiled. i, well
i said i was " just fucking nuts, is all."


"but babe, it really does suit you."
yeah, did back in 68
still does, yeah, damn straight it does!