The usual excuses: spring untethered its feathered pollen
up my nose
and everyone else was doing it. Forgive me, father,
this was like jumping
off a cliff because others did, my streaking down Main’s
hot tar.
I wanted to do my part to end the war, so I bared my end
and waved a flag—
“Look,” I said, youth’s tragic logic in the terminal smoke
of Nixon’s years,
the world unhinged as were my jeans and reason.
Menu