This is the poem about the Beatles that
I never wrote, and now there are more
yesterdays than tomorrows
he taught me how to make a military tuck
of the sheets and blankets; the way a quarter should bounce,
and when it did, the way he’d smile and clap my back. I lived for that.
the smokin’ hot honey dressed in skin
tight black leather pants and matching jacket
and wielding her six-string and harmonica,
meant Mr. Sin and his sidekicks were for
the moment muzzled
My God! The man with long white hair
waiting for an elevator on the thirteenth floor
is Edgar Winter, blear-eyed from a night
spent raising the roof at the Fillmore East.