Another rock group poem:
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Prees Heath, Summer '68
Our group’s van expires on the abandoned
airbase: a transport cafe proprietor, broken-
nosed, lemon-toothed, force-feeds me coffee.
A sharp stink of Lysol plus Ohio Expresso.
Garth and Pete click dominoes, don't glance up
as I stumble out and puke in the yellow gorse.
Empty runways, camouflage-gray hangars:
heathland stretching in every direction,
ghost Mosquitoes buzz the chickweed cement.
I swab my mouth. Another riff to play.
Christopher T. George
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