That Old Gang of Mine

The aging hippie couple
at the end of my block
stack sofa, chairs, bookcases
and one table on their lawn;
set a bonfire. Their way
of making a statement
about ownership, they claim,
when the cops rush up.

They grow weed among their
flowering bottlebrush shrubs,
carry brownies packed with
their wares to the sad old lady
across the street.

She dances until midnight
in a red beaded dress, skirt swirling-
a redbird in flight. The neighborhood
dogs howl under her windowsill,
her four-legged choir of fresh lovers.
The other ones lie six feet under
in long ago graves, for now, forgotten.