Summer, 1979 We used to swim here when we were rebel children. Trekked behind The Finer Food Store, where I spent my food stamp allotment. Waded the shallow creek to the rock quarry. It was 1979 when I stopped wishing for Woodstock days, but began mourning the dead. Floating, facing the August sun that burned the skin I should have saved, I would’t last.
I am working more on this poem and saving it for submission. Thanks for reading.