PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It was the summer of love,
at least that's what they said.
There were guys with long
hair and beards and beads,

with wide trousers, and loud
shirts, and girls with long
hair, and dresses like nuns,
or short skirts, showing off

their not so good legs or thighs.
There was Hendricks, Beatles
and Stones and playing, music
loud, live. Julie was out for

the day; the hospital quacks,
giving her a day pass, no
shooting up, no pill popping.
She met Ben in Trafalgar

Square, tight skirt and top,
hair held in a ponytail, bright
eyed, big smile. He was
by the fountains having a

smoke, eyeing the girls,
listening to some long
haired guy strum a guitar,
his skinny girlfriend doing

a dance, her bony legs
looking breakable, tits
non existent. Been here
long? Julie said. No, just

a few moments, he lied,
not wanting to give her
reasons to moan or row.
She wanted to go for a beer.

So he took her to the bar
off Charing Cross Road
and ordered two cold beers
and lit up some smokes.

She spoke of some nurse
who almost lost her her pass,
all about some fuck up, over  
drugs, she’d forgotten to take.

She said the quacks were ok
with it, the tall one is hot,
she said, shouldn’t mind him
poking around in my parlour.

He told her about the Charles
Lloyd jazz album he'd bought,
how he'd met him outside Dobell's,
got a sign copy of the new L.P.

She drained her drink and he
ordered another two, she took
one of  his smokes and lit up
and sat back, crossing her legs,

her black short skirt riding her
thighs, sucking in his eyes.
No place for sex, she said,
unless you know of a bed

and room going cheap for
an hour or so?  No luck,
he said, wishing he did,
remembering the fast shaft,

the quickie in the hospital
broom room, amidst brooms
and brushes and buckets
or boxes and all. She said

her parents rang, and they
argued, and she slammed
down the phone. They said
it was the summer of love,

but where they sat, boozing
and smoking, it fell pretty flat.