Originally posted on 10/31/2011.

Sparse-framed, reticent, particular;
the old hippies come into town
on odd weeks
for what they cannot grow
or raise.  

I hear they’ve got a sod roof on their house.
Life off the grid, under ground:
a few acres,
a 1978 Ford pickup.

A friend sneers at them,
calls them un-American.

Here on the grid we’ve got
fear, troubles,
the grinding grind.  We all 
talk too much, some 
in jeers:

Hey, hippie,
go hug a tree.  Go
bathe in the snow.
Get a job.  

Sparse,
quiet, 
don’t associate with us
unless they have to.
Un-American bastards.

Hey, hippies —

get in the trough with us
and bring some eggs
or weed when you come —
bring something else
to eat, something

we don’t have.