Issue 55, Fall 1972
The cops don’t carry magnums of champagne
in the backseats of their cruisers.
In my town, seven year old kids know how to steal motorcycles,
and where they can get new serial numbers.
Watch out, keep down.
My father was the star of the Demolition Derby,
my mother sang with the Les Elgart Band until her voice gave out.
But this won’t get me a Liberty Bond Sandwich,
or a banjo good enough to carry to California.
When it gets too hard, go soak your head in a bucket of gasoline.
There isn’t a work-clothes store in this whole city
that will sell me another black t-shirt with a pocket on credit.
I can’t take it.