Let It Be. Poem by Terry Collett

She always had that, Let It Be, album
On the turntable, with him, the latest uncle,
Sitting beside her on the couch or in her bed,
Smoking, making out, and you were told to go
Outside and play and leave her be, and so
You’d go out and play or find some mischief
To do with Hawksmith, who always seemed
To know how you felt, what made you tick,
And he’d say, let’s go up to Grundle’s barn,
Let’s go make out in the hay, and he’d laugh,
And so you’d go to the barn or down by Mullen’s
Pond and watch him fish. She always played
That darn Let It Be album when she was high,
Had it up loud, the music blaring out over
The yard, and she and him, laughing and cursing,
And when you used to creep back to the house
Late at night the lights were on and you’d hear
The Beatles’ album going round and round on
The turntable without reason or any sound.