On the day Kennedy’s head exploded

On that day, the day Kennedy’s head exploded
in Dallas,
I was lusting after a slim-hipped blonde girl
In Nanaimo.
We were truant that awful autumn day,
careening in her father’s bright yellow
Mercedes Benz.
We drove the back roads of the Nanaimo hills
that grim November day, nipping lemon gin
and exploring. Each other. Innocent stuff, really.
The radio blurted out the shattering story
and ruined the adventure. The blonde-haired girl
drove back to school. I would have preferred
to stay cuddling at Harewood Dam.
On the day Kennedy’s head exploded,
I knew I would never see the blonde-haired,
slim-hipped girl ever again.
For a couple of years, I lost my way.
And I’ve lost her name.
In fact, the whole day
would have disappeared from my memoirs
if Lee Harvey hadn’t of had his way.
Lee Harvey…or whoever, eh?