Ghazal: One Summer // Barbara Cooker

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

It was nineteen sixty-eight, The Summer of Love;
patchouli and marijuana hung in the air, a murmur of love.

We came to San Francisco in a Volkswagen Bug,
rust-red, my heart, back-beat drummer of love.

I wore a peasant dress, my hair hung down my back;
you'd let yours grow into an Afro, sideburns, latecomer to love.

I thought "forever" meant it, that we were only tourists
at the Be-In, didn't see your eyes rove. A bummer, this love.

We became a statistic, cliche, another marriage gone bad.
I raised our daughter; you had a number of lovers.

My life, a rainbow fish hauled up on hooks and barbs, dulled
and dimmed. Cast-off old tie-dye, could I have been dumber, in love?