That was the year Tommy T drove me to Williamsburg, Virginia where we ate fried clams at the Howard Johnson’s. Later we made out in his 1963 burgundy Impala. His tongue tasted like clams. Tommy had the midnight to 6:00 slot on WNOR. He played “Pucker up Buttercup” and dedicated it to me.

Two years later I was back in Williamsburg. I’d outgrown Tommy T, clams and top 40. That was the year I wobbled back to my dorm from the W&M Basement, drunk on 3.2 beer and passed out on my bed listening to Hugh Masakela

That was the year Mama waved goodbye to the back of a Greyhound Bus that carried her daughter away from her for the last time.

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “1967

  1. Jack Brewis

    I loved this so much; beautifully vivid.

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