I knew nary a whit about
rock n roll history
soon to unfold August fifteen –
eighteen ninety sixty nine
mollycoddled, nestled,
obliviously preoccupied

bajillion miles away
attending Baker Park Day Camp
within Phoenixville, Pennsylvania
innocently naive shy lad
hidebound, yours truly
to prefer tried and true familiar turf

quite limited radius
circumscribed physical world,
yes quite sheltered proximity, where
birth family resided
324 Level Road Collegeville
outward bound sphere

comprised safe circumference
nsync within unhealthy insecurity
arising, whereabouts arbitrarily
drawn circle defined mine safe haven
hence, ignorance prevailed
encompassing world at large,

hence bajillion miles distant
Max Yasgur's 601 acre (2.4 km²)
dairy farm in the town
of Bethel, New York,
asper outside realm consciousness
pertaining to yours truly

absolute zero awareness,
where stripling, (and stripped bare) youths,
some approximately twice my age
immersed themselves into
unforgettable experiences of lifetime,
which Woodstock Music, and Art

rock music festival teases
fanciful overactive imagination
speculating buzzfeeding aural
oral, nasal, tactile, visual... senses
ruing, lamenting, bemoaning...

owning cowardly risk averse
demeanor shielding self
against bazaar panoply
augmenting exposure inviting
bizarre phenomena,
versus being tethered

predictably within familiar bubblicious
range umbilical cord (albeit figurative)
linkedin (courtesy known environment)
allowing, enabling, and providing regret
(benefit of 20/20 hindsight)
to tweezer what if...scenario

transcending comfort zone,
which looming fear of unknown
hogtied opportunity to sample novel
adventures (as opposed to reading
such tales of daring do sequestered
as avid bookworm) expending hours

as quiet natured kid (rarely heard or seen),
and reading still predominant passion
providing passive access, now
finding me remonstrating the detriment
against exhibiting proactive modus operandi.