Deadheads
One of the morning regulars at Mabel’s,
coffee from the saucer, beta-blocker with
a view toward noon, crossing guard vest
in the truck, then it’s feet up for Tucker
and Hannity, the wife lit up in bed
asleep in Kindle glow. Both thicker now,
a cancer scare, her memory lapses,
bi-monthly visits with a grandson
at the VA up in Waukon. But
long ago her long blonde hair,
homespun batik print and ankle
bells pulsed like beacons in a writhing sea
breaking on a shoal from high atop
a Marshall stack where he flounced around
naked as a jay on a snootful of Bear’s
very best. Jerry presiding, they tied the knot
while Weir and Hart noodled in between
Morning Dew and Dark Star. Ten year
camp followers, ecstatic Spinners until
she took a gig with the Board of Ed and
her uncle John got him in at Deere.
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