This is my father’s world.
Jesus freaks on the road
to the county fair.
Only a dim recollection
of them in a median
as we hurry by.

My parents younger
than I am now.
They’re too old to understand hippies.
I’m too young.

Polyester suits at the hymn-singing
counter-protest to modernity
or at least whatever version
that hates the war and big band music.

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