You, the wife of a handsome English prof
who made literature sing.
We, the hippies who lionized him.
We came to your porch evenings,
drank and smoked dope,
marveled at his insights,
e.e. Cummings to Shakespeare.
But I felt a weird vibe.
As the prof drank more and more,
he began to ogle the hippie chicks,
flirt with them, stare at their braless breasts,
letch at them and ignore you.
Mrs. B., an Iowa farm daughter,
your teeth turned your face ugly
compared to the nymphs
who oohed and aahed at your husband
who unabashedly played to them,
left you, mouth closed, lips protruding
rooted in your church shoes,
sipping a Coke through a straw
to prevent hand wringing,
a simple dress, revealing
an awkward body, hiding
a burgeoning figure, babies
asleep inside, unawares.
I’m just a repentant, old hippie guy
who did his own damage to women
back in the Day. Mrs. B., I’ve mused
about you in my retirement years.
Hope you fled to better off.
Originally published in Beatnik Cowboy