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

 

 

warmth

 

 

 

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

 

 

erased

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there were signs
during the summer of 1968

she couldn’t remember my name