Spring, dogwoods everywhere,
flowers white as a wedding gown

before an old roommate's kid grabs
hold with cake-smeared hands, your

complaint that you can hardly find
them here, up north, something else

you've gotten wrong, like whose guitar
wept as Harrison sang it or the meaning

of satisfaction. Where does a mistake
become a lie? That time you knew

you had the truth of Purple Haze, what
Hendrix really begged our pardon to kiss,

and you told it with a preacher's heat
to a girl who laughed and took the joint,

while your other hand eased a button
from its hole. Outside, a cold front

strips the dogwoods. A turkey pecks
a window, furious at the bird he sees.