by Joe Cottonwood
At a suburban garage sale
for nostalgia’s sake I buy bell-bottom jeans,
knees lovingly patched with paisley.
Peace, brother, the old guy says
as he pockets my single dollar.
Never in the mood, I never wear
but store them like an old photo,
mellow in my closet.
A quiet vibe, these threads.
Until my daughter
discovers, wears these jeans
as a hippie Halloween costume
to a high school dance and looks great.
Groovy! she shouts.
Now may her children find.
May peace endure
Patch. Love. Dance.