in the garden of eden

we were singing
songs
in the smoked
filled car
taking a road
trip to nowhere,
looking for girls,
searching for a sub
sandwich to
eat. we were young
and red eyed
from inhaling
an illegal
substance.
old beatle songs,
the eagles.
only songs by groups
named after
bugs, or animals,
was the rule,
no matter how
badly
they were spelled.
the byrds, the turtles,
three dog night,
although
we unanimously
hated them,
so we moved on
to the monkees,
which took an
hour of singing.
iron butterfly's
inna godda da vida
was endless as someone
beat out the drum
on the dashboard,
by the time we
got to cat stevens
we were delirious
and starving.
so we stopped
and ate.
on the way home
we stared out
the window
and said nothing,
smiling blissfully
into the starlit night.