1974

1974

Seattle Saturday night at

The Harvard Exit.

Bohemian, veggie, peaceniks

Wild beards and sweat stains—

Men who could pass for cons— 

Smoking spliffs,

Bullshit in breaths about

Duane Allman, dead on a 

Harley, dead like Morrison.

I’m with my beareded father,

“Professor” to them; we see

French animation, a film called

“Fantastic Planet.”

At any moment, I’ll be robbed,

Ripped off, run through with a

Red-hot bullet.

The streets are full of freaks,

The city is anything but

Safe.

“It’s the seventies, man,”

A con says to me as my

Stomach tightens,

“Relax!”