But For Awhile
The Bullseye Tavern in Monterey
Was the Sixties in a closet,
The music loud—sometimes good,
The beer plentiful—sometimes cold.
The weed was, what shall we say,
Available, hung heady and heavy.
Commanding the bar, just back
From the Nam, was Captain MP
From Fort Ord, beads draped
Around his neck, eyes glazed,
White helmet, sleeveless fatigue,
Directing disorder, the drunk,
And disjointed, dazed in a haze
That provided cover from the day’s
Incoming, story and worry. The Bullseye
Is mist, as long gone as the Sixties--
And youth. A vacant premise inhabited
By memory and those of us still here.
Bruce Morton was stationed in 1969 and 1970 at Presidio Monterey; he now divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in many magazines, most recently Ibbetson Street, Muddy River Poetry Review, London Grip, Sheila-Na-Gig, and ONE ART. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.
The Bullseye Tavern in Monterey
Was the Sixties in a closet,
The music loud—sometimes good,
The beer plentiful—sometimes cold.
The weed was, what shall we say,
Available, hung heady and heavy.
Commanding the bar, just back
From the Nam, was Captain MP
From Fort Ord, beads draped
Around his neck, eyes glazed,
White helmet, sleeveless fatigue,
Directing disorder, the drunk,
And disjointed, dazed in a haze
That provided cover from the day’s
Incoming, story and worry. The Bullseye
Is mist, as long gone as the Sixties--
And youth. A vacant premise inhabited
By memory and those of us still here.
Bruce Morton was stationed in 1969 and 1970 at Presidio Monterey; he now divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in many magazines, most recently Ibbetson Street, Muddy River Poetry Review, London Grip, Sheila-Na-Gig, and ONE ART. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.