Stewart is a solid Moonie
with smug exterior,
square-jawed midwestern smile.
My kids think he’s creepy.
He’s paranoid as we walk down the street:
A police car is tailing him.
Another car is threatening him.
It’s just Chicago, this is how people drive.
An idealist, bright young hope of America,
he gave me my first marijuana, many years ago.
He was cool, played guitar,
sang old blues, felt too much.
He needed leaders, a defined path.
In the church everyone is friendly.
It’s like he had a lobotomy.
You can’t touch his mind.
They snatched a warm soul, a lively wit
leaving ashes, beholden
to some crazy god.
YOU ARE READING
Hippie Highway
PoetryNew poems about how it was and still might be. Hate the hippies? Sorry. You may leave now.
