My Own personal History of the Haight-Ashbury

Steeped in Fillmore sorrow,
in the sad Panhandle,
in the cold bleak light of afternoon,
beneath the fog of Stanyan Street,
I thought I saw the sun too.

But it was only Melanie Kinkead high on acid in her
gauzy yellow,
little girl dress
her white tights with a hole in the knee.

She smiled at me as she waltzed by
past the dogshit playground, into the grayness. Then more fog.

Summer 1966.