I lived in town for a moment,
a neighborhood around the Shrine—
Black on one side,
college kids, the other
in a subdivided,
old two-story
peeling paint
we called Big Pink.
Weekend mecca for loud
electric sounds, Janis
and the Revolution wailing—
the street would teem
with strobe-lit kids,
weed wafting sidewalk trees,
trying to ignore the War,
Kent State and the M-16
awaiting graduation.
Landmarks close,
I had no plans to map—
yet found myself asleep
retracing trails
to High Sierra meadows,
bell mare edging
a snowmelt lake,
pine smoke and
a leaky bucket sky at night.
drycrikjournal 