Back When We Were Innocent

Back when we were innocent
and idealistic
and thought the problems
of the world
were clear matters
of justice and injustice,
Kurt and Anita and Mary and I
went to Kansas City
and marched with the Yippies.

We camped in the park
high above the train station,
slept in tents and teepees,
and got a lecture from a guy with nothing,
about how what I had was his
and what he had was mine.

We marched down the street
later that day
with a big banner
that said something
important
and when we got to the convention center,
they herded us
into an enclosure
at a spot
as far away from those we hated
as you could get.

Later that night
it wasn't in a group of a thousand,
but in little clumps
of very tired people,
that we stumbled back to the park.

And I remember a bus load
of state troopers
going by
and yelling at us
something about Ronald Reagan
whom we didn't really know
yet.

I haven't thought about those days
for a very long time.
And now,
mining the memories,
there's a profound sense
of sadness,
settling in
behind these wrinkled eyes.

Mary and I broke up
a few years later,
and she never
spoke to me again.
Kurt and Anita married,
had kids.
I heard a few years ago
Anita got cancer and died.
Kurt is still around,
although we aren't friends anymore.
And I have no idea
if there are still yippies.

And as this stuff
churns up inside
and the river that we are
stretching all that way back
comes into view,
you can see
beyond words
how the connections still glow
and the boundaries dissappear
into the mist
of time and place
that lies
within
these beating hearts.