by Christin Call
Lonni "Lollipop" Lollar--your parents
stayed home from Woodstock to listen to
their collection of the Chordettes LP's.
Yes, love your mama, because when
she dressed you in those collared plaids,
it made your Pearl Jam rebellious phase
that much easier. She cried into her crumpets
when you grew your hair--long, tossable,
and irresistible, you thought.
But see the happy ending, you graduated
in physical education and promptly started
teaching geography. The hair was cut without so much
as a Neil Young scream, much less memories of waving like
a real freak flag in the breeze,
the breeze of butterflies and wheat chaff.
Coach Lollar, still handsome in his khakis,
and doesn't bother to point out "Finway" or
"Norwegia" next to each other on the map.
His lecture yesterday was how the (S)elts,
indigenous people with snotty accents,
later developed a great basketball team in the States.
It went well--the freshman girl in the front looked
to be practicing a b.j. on that DumDum,
who, even if he couldn't convince to apply such
skills to the test,
would still glorify and please and honor him
in certain moments.