There was a time, indeed there was a time,
when hippies, despite ragged jeans,
torn tie-dyes, no bras, long hair
or hair under gals' pits and on their legs,
beads the vivid colors of parrots,
sandals and dirty feet, weed Heaven,
psychedelic dreams--had power.
We had created co-op businesses,
ways of sustaining our culture.
A record store, SOUNDZ, an art co-op, ART START,
METAMORPHOSIS, our veggie restaurant,
a clothing store, THIMBLE AND THREADS,
our food co-op, EARTHWORKS.
Trucked fresh food down from the big city,
brought (YOU’D BETTER BE READY)
granola to life, by our Jesus freaks,
(everything was alternative), even an alternative
tropical fish store, OCTOPUSES’ GARDEN,
our own print shop, HOTT OFF,
run by Crazy Frank to get our news out,
GOOD VIBES, a competitive electronics store, etc.
We spent—our parents had money
and we could scrounge with the best.
But we did not have an alternative bank.
That big grey monstrosity still smirked
over our tiny business hovels,
as we stored our cash in their coffers.
But the fat cats got too fat,
dollars from the poor weren't wanted.
The poor shopped at our stores.
The bank stopped taking their stamps.
We could not serve our neighbors.
I was there for the showdown,
the fight at not OK Corral,
the suits vs the rags.
Our burgeoning little community
had more than a million in the vaults.
"Either accept food stamps again
or we walk." How faces change,
how smirks disappear.
Our rights, restored.
America was alright again
in one tiny way.
Originally published in Corvus Review