Before Assassinations

when the moment came, somewhere in the 1960s,
riding buses disappeared,
and old-school uniforms, white gloves for women
and the men in snap-brim hats and chugging
downhill in Packards slumped into easy chairs and vanished,

some time back then when bluejeans ripened, exploded and
sent the country to parties looking
like released prisoners from San Quentin,

some earlier time when polite repartee and wit was
shown by opening doors for old
ladies and turning off the television when
neighbors called,

some time in between
assassinations and warfare, before
Bob Dylan warbled tonelessly and Janis Joplin
still played croquet on grass as green
as Texas,

somewhere back there
America snacked on sun tea and cookies
made hot from mother’s stove, a reflection
of slow-paced evenings and cicadas pungently
rasping in the tall trees.