To My Mountan Laurel Poem by David McLansky

To My Mountan Laurel



Oh hippie chick,
My Mountain Laurel,
Is that you standing
On sacred soil
Beside your weathered
Volkswagon Bus,
My eyes are weak
I do not trust.

The times have changed
We can smoke weed, ;
So pass that pipe;
I still have the need;
It's not for me,
But for my glaucoma;
I was going blind
In Oklahoma;
You still look good
In your gingham dress;
You're looking good
I must confess;

It's me your Man
Your Highway Jack
With his sleeping bag
And his heavy pack;
You picked me up
Outside Santa Fe;
Girl that was
My lucky Day;

Your van was full
Of flowered shirts,
On hangers hung
With Tie-died skirts
Your brown hair knotted
Above perfect ears
From which dangled
Silver spears;
You still have
That Gibson guitar,
Which you played
In cowboy bars;

It blows my mind
This is so weird
I look down the road
And you appear
In your huffing, puffing
Volkswaagon van;
Remember me?
'I wanna hold your hand.'

Saturday, October 4, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: love
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