Sheena's mom hops apartments a lot,
something about rent.
Sheena's the new kid,
a different school,
three times a year.
Mom sings in nightclubs,
loves cats and plants and alcohol,
also men. Many men.
Sheena says, "They didn't treat me kindly."
Mom has a plan to save the world
though she can't explain
except to Lyndon Johnson
so she takes a bus from Los Angeles
to the White House.
A call from the D.C. jail:
"You be good, Sheena.
I'll be back as soon as I can."
Sheena rides in Grandad's pickup
across deserts to Texas
going to the same high school
for three years,
blossoming until Grandad
gets a new woman
of the possessive type.
Sheena hitchhikes to San Francisco where
among friendly people on Haight Street
she's a flower
in bright clothing.
With common Texas good sense by day
Sheena works as a secretary
to a garbage company.
Nights, it's like a costume party.
Weekends, no masks at the nude beach
with LSD and wearing a smile
where she meets a man who clicks.
Just that. Clicks.
She didn't know about click
until she felt it.
Sheena follows him to his bus,
home on wheels.
It's love and would still be love except
the drugs get hard and she sees
it coming and deboards the bus.
He gets prison, big time.
She gets a baby girl.
Two years on welfare, an insult but with
the innate wisdom of a survivor
she marries her chiropractor.
Now she runs the office;
her back has never felt better
and in school the little girl
starts to bloom.
It ain't love. But it's happy enough.
On occasion, somehow, the grinding of the earth
creates a diamond. Hard. Sometimes flawed.
But she sparkles.
YOU ARE READING
Hippie Highway
PoetryNew poems about how it was and still might be. Hate the hippies? Sorry. You may leave now.
