The strong smell of dirty socks on a hot, funky day,
Permeating the closed up, dark-colored rooms
In the house of the freaky seventies people.
Bushy beards and big belt buckles,
And gas pedals shaped like chrome bare feet,
In a scary van, ran by the freaky seventies people.
Headband visors? Baseball caps without a top!
T-shirt slogans that made even less sense.
And so many sandals, to protect all the feet
From the beer-can pull-tabs dropped by the freaky seventies people.
Gold-colored, round medallions worn around the necks,
Bringing in the luck? Or warding off the hex?
Separating the Jesus People from all the other freaky seventies people.
And then last night, I woke from my 10,000th nightmare of the
Freaky seventies people and finally figured it out!
That sickly-sweet smell
That seemed to fill every darkened house but ours:
That was not stale dirty socks after all.
VM - 09/06/2018
