Do you remember the summer of ‘79
When we floated the river weekly
With our trash bags and contraband beer
Brown as the bark on the dark submerged trees
And all the women had flat bellies and tans
And we were all young and very high
So even the maggots in the trashcans
We had to empty almost daily
Didn’t discourage us—much?
The crazy old man named Glen
Managed us with a gleam in his eyes
And a slingshot in his pocket
With which he brought down a dozen squirrels
In the parking lot where my lonely Ford lounged
Waiting for the end of the day.
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