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