HITCH

(from ’69; one of my first poems).
. . . . . . . . . . . .

-She stands on Sunset,
with a tanned thumb
& a mango-shaped crotch…

-Urge, time & place seem right.
I stop, open the door –
she’s headed for the Strip…
we pass Western, Vine, Highland.
She looks spent, curled in the seat,
an unwound clock spring.

-“Good Vibrations” is on the radio,
we praise Brian Wilson;
her far away look seems to say,
“I’m not all there.”

-I scratch…

-“I won’t try anything,”
I tell myself,
“Maybe tomorrow, or the day after…
who knows? Between tokes, sweet talk
& incense sticks,
I could trade her two downs
for my one up.

-Tomorrow stays
a day away.

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