It was the year when a black
limousine
and
a country lost its mind in Dallas,
the
year when the Beatles started the decade late
and
made it their very own
by
driving in long black cars
coated
with fab and undulating scream.
It
was the year when the first helicopter
hit
the Asian ground in man-eating jungles
that
wrote a thousand history books
with
and without the silence and the sound.
It
was when I started picking strings and wood,
when
the Village stole my heart
and
showed my brain and fingers the could
before
the long-awaited would and should.
It
was the year I made a fledgling start
and
read poems by Alfred Lord,
who
whispered I wouldn’t always be alone,
though
as for the promise of a peace accord,
I later loved and lost
someone I found by accident
and
hung my heart on skin and bone.
Sixty-three
was like nothing ever seen,
and
like all the years that die yet live,
it
became a grave with tilted marking stone.
It
was the year of the black limousine.
~William Hammett
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