Skin infused with salt, French fries,
Coppertone with a hint of vanilla. Our tongues
make a soft swirl journey of chocolate
custard, bitterness that flowers atop a waffle cone. The
Rolling Stones' Mother's Little Helper blasts
from transistor radios. There is a war somewhere but not
here. We see the occasional freighter on the horizon, a sighting
of sailors in dress whites on the boardwalk. That summer,
there is so much to think about: men on the moon, the Mets,
Manson. At Woodstock we all get skin infections, but being Americans
we have access to antibiotics, God Bless the good ole USA.
Some of us take the red pills, while some of us, like me, pretend
to swallow. When school starts, I iron my hair Joni Mitchell straight,
blossom into a hippie, secretly crave the safety of my bedroom
and the pictures of Ringo taped on my pink walls.
Vicki Iorio is the author of Poems from the Dirty Couch and the chapbooks Send Me a Letter and Something Fishy. Her poetry has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals including The Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, poets respond on line, and The Fem Lit Magazine.