Being Rank Was Part of Our Revolution

Seventies fur vests wet in the rain Stinky but still in style so we wore them Until they shredded and fell off our dirty shirts. Cotton shirts no longer crisp but with wide ruffles at their wrist marks. Soft dirty wrinkly blue jeans that smelled a bit gamey. No one noticed that they never made it to the laundry pile. Being rank was part of our revolution, a clothing protest To the Viet Nam War where our poorest were being sacrificed daily. We scrunched together in Volkswagen busses, Traveling to Washington, where we could hold our signs. And protest our truth, where wet fur vests were parading about Along with grungy headbands and dreadlocks on white teenagers. Leaving the silk and satin of the sixties back in the small towns Where their youth thought they had to have a wedding to have sex. We knew better. We did not care about crisp smooth wrapping paper Or prancing ribbons on packages. We were uncomfortable and glad.