1974
Steven M. Smith
​

Last night I couldn’t sleep.  So, once again,
I abandoned the warmth of my wife
to curl up with my shadows on the couch.
This time clips of 1974 flickered
on the living room ceiling.
 
I remembered carloads of us.  How we
would drive an hour north to Salmon River Falls. 
That was before power company enforcers
escorted partiers away for trespassing.  That was after
sheriff deputies, their palms resting
on belted nightsticks, busted our parties
at Toad Harbor or the overgrown gravel bed
behind Polio Pond. 
I thought about the young soldier I admired
who attended some of our parties.
I was sixteen with hair to my shoulders;
my scrawniness whimpered. 
My hands fumbled a bong and beer can.
He was early twenties with a buzz cut;
his muscles grunted. 
His hands cupped the blushed cheeks of an angel--
a brunette with a smile that could
make a soldier desert.
 
He didn’t.  But she did.
 
1974.  I was sixteen.  A teacher labeled me a waste.
And the radio kept playing Three Dog Night’s
cover of “The Show Must Go On.”