Larry and Irene were with me
in a low rent flat in Eagle Rock
drinking can after sweaty can of ice
cold Coors, toking on
tightly rolled sinsemilla,
listening to Dylan and The Band
crank it out on track ten:
“The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”
Three pairs of eyes wide
on a barricaded prize
on East 54th Street smoking
on a nineteen-inch color TV.
Lobo beside us;
his paws curled under
his chin.
Through the split curtain
I could see the thick haze
fifteen miles away.
A flicker of sunlight
on the old green couch
seemed a slow tempo
version of the rapid fire
dance on the screen:
3722 rounds by six revolutionaries,
thousands more from the other side.
They didn’t get Patty Hearst.
I’m not even sure she was there,
but the house, its roof, walls, floors,
anything living inside no longer was.
