CHASING NO MORE

I have to admit that I
loved the Grateful Dead
saw them in concert when I could,
listened often but could never
be considered a Deadhead.

Years later my sons and I
loved Moxy Früvous and
traveled to nearby shows,
bought every album, played
them to death so we were
justifiably FrüHeads.

But time has passed, that band
is now gone as well, and I
have taken to drinking margaritas,
but only with anejo tequila,
Cointreau and lime juice and I
will never ever be mistaken
for a Parrothead.

TOO WAY BACK MACHINE

Platform shoes, velour
Nehru jackets, what the hell
were we thinking, and pink
velour, seriously, for men.

At least it was Hendrix, Byrds,
and not Pat Boone and Andy
Williams, almost the death
of music as we know it.

Reefers were evil, told us so,
and when we figured out it was
pot, we begged to differ, frequently
between hits on the bong,

after all joints required a certain
amount of dexterity in the rolling
and tjat progressively slipped away
with the afternoon sun.

Now it’s chardonnay and pinot
and a good reposado or anejo,
or a blanco if company appears
and triple sec then, never Cointreau.