anything lamer
than some old fuck
obsessed
with the history of The Beatles?

i’m probably nine—
boy scouts and all that,
cub-scouts if we’re getting technical.

mike’s father,
a hippie in his own right,
dressed us up in bandanas, wigs,
and peace sign necklaces.

we lip-synch to some busted cassette tape,
a live version of “give peace a chance,”
for some no-name talent show
in a drab, wood-paneled community space
at the state park
that also housed horses
and went on to remind me over the years
we were poor.

but poor doesn’t equal dead
at least not here
and we were all perfectly content at nine
to give peace a chance,

even though nick and i
tussled in the parking lot the other week
over something small
i can’t remember now—

maybe just unfiltered anger,
you know,
trying it on for size.

mike’s father popped the tape
right before john lennon shouts:
“come on, all you sons-of-bitches in the back, stop smoking.”

click

“that’s it!” mike’s dad said.
still remember
that greened-out grin.

-

but mother earth weeps
as themes repeat,
her womb scars over,
and we all go back to smoking.