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 all up in bandanas, wigs,
and peace-sign necklaces.

we lip-synch to an old busted cassette tape,
a live version of The Beatles “give peace a chance,”
for some no-name talent show
in a drab, wood-paneled community room
at the local state park

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—

just unfiltered anger,
trying it on for size.

click

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

“that’s it!” he said.
i still remember
his greened-out grin.

-

but mother earth weeps x3
as themes repeat,
her womb scars over,
and we all go back to smoking.