Those days recall less colors and even less sense With longer hair like Jackson Browne, Pensively reeling in half rhymed ballads walkin’ like Dylan and shredding our voices like Springsteen. “walkin’ real loud…”
When poets sang and singers Listened, from a freight car door Waiting on an old white fence Anything that made an album cover.
My crew was meticulously unkempt, one day shy of a much needed shampoo but okay - we were just 'okay' then. ...Surely for another day.
Our moms were old with thick rimmed glasses and smoked and our fathers, they were smoking men too wearing two shades of gray tucked in all the way… around And around, my dad and I went.
We spoke with twisted lips Groomed our eyes and looked out From behind narrow poles and ***** brick walls That gave, what we knew of our souls, This, sorta clandestine refuge.
And our pockets Were empty, our wallets - were empty . Except a beer cap and a phone number, Scribbled and torn from the corner of a Houghton Mifflin textbook. “I’ll call her when I get home.” Let’s go home.
Sitting on the hood of my Torino I scanned the streets, smelled the tar Of our last summers burning.
These girls hugged their diaries to their chest and we’d gaze we’d gaze through Sunlit dust and dandelion fairies eager to unbutton their secret stories about us, always about us, and our eyes made such nimble fingers.
We were outward bound on inward glory... always thinking about love hoping on plans that’ll get us "laid" by a girl who wears daisies in her hair.
Big sweet flowers for the butterflies Stirring in our stomachs Fluttering to land softly at the entrance of her big – sweet - flower. My generation loved love.