and I recall
my teen self, 
ironed-straight long blonde hair,
swirling around, as
I dance the swim, the pony,
to those surf tunes,
visions of woodies, surfer dudes, beach sunsets
in my head
(the one time I surf I get a fat lip from the board)

‘70’s Beach Boys concert
in my college cafeteria
(hard times, those)
I take Helen, my youngest (now dead) sister,
we sit on the floor,
Helen, young, shy, straight arrow,
is flummoxed by the passing of a joint
I am too busy admiring Dennis Wilson,
and singing along
to be compassionate, so I just grab the joint,
puff mightily, and pass it on.

funny the memories
music conjures up.