Another rock group poem:

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