It’s hard to believe that crotchety old man
and his wife hobbling into the store
where I work were once hippies.
Their faces creased like a shirt
I forgot to put in the dryer
and had no time to iron, the man’s pants
pulled up to his chest and his wife muttering
something about the pie she has to bake
for the Sunday church social.
I try to picture them at Woodstock,
a farmer’s soggy field overrun
by painted young ladies
showing their bouncing, naked breasts
at a time of dawning liberation,
the man then bearded without the faintest
hint of grey and both of them smoking pot
and waiting for Jefferson Airplane
to hit the stage.
I can’t imagine them
listening to acid rock
or Led Zeppelin’s vinyl debut
with its flaming Hindenburg crashing
to a hellish death in New Jersey.
I can’t see the man swapping his
Arnold Palmer polo shirt
for a psychedelic tie-dye
and the woman with her midriff
bare and smooth, a peace sign
above her navel.
They ask if they can pay by cheque,
that they’ve never sent an email
when I suggest our online specials,
that they’ve yet to see our Facebook page
and that Instagram is something
they never would have imagined
when they rolled in the mud over
half a century ago, dancing
as if they would never age a day.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp