big red

      our clubhouse was in the hayloft of the old barn hot and stuffy in summer freezing cold in winter we listened to Beatle records over and over again on a dusty turntable    


      the sweet scent of oranges warm yellow walls her curtains were gingham like the aprons she sewed        

before the age of monstrosities

  when a small comfortable home was just enough    

yard karma

  July 3, 1971 driving my friend’s family’s Lincoln Continental from Edgartown to Vineyard Haven picked up few hitchhikers along the way someone turned on the radio to the news that Jim Morrison had died    


              there were signs during the summer of 1968 she couldn’t remember my name