Cruising Greater Boulder, Colorado
in four-wheel drive utility vehicle
not many years before 2000
listening to “Hair” CD
I spot you on every other corner,
age 19 or so
looking as you did then
in miniskirt, barefoot, great legs,
hard fisted, stoned with
Sanskrit forehead
The song I hear repeats your mantra
“How dare they try to end this beauty”
I see yuppie cubs in the streets shouting
“The fire next time!”
without really knowing why
The bold exhale sweet smelling smoke
outside pseudo-native t-shirt shops,
the aroma reminding me
of you in your moon time,
a 68’er running from the summer of blood
Come back, Sister Morningstar,
from Germany or Canada,
or from wherever gravity
is making you old
I miss your crushed social justice,
our orange sky