Dylan and Dylan

When she left him,
Dylan wrote Blood on Tracks.
He sang about loneliness, Lily and Rosemary.
Nobody gave him shelter from the storm.
Ravaged, on the street,
blood covered his tracks.

And here, I am,
on a crisp Friday mid morning,
after two cups of coffee,
listening to Desire.
Dylan sings of Mozambique.
He sings of Isis.
He sings of Black Diamond bay.
He sings of one more cup of coffee.
I think, somewhere in 1976,
Dylan fell in love again.
The blood on the tracks was never washed away,
flowers just covered them.

I was reading a Japanese author,
when Dylan interfered and
snatched my concentration
away from the book
towards

the 100 watt speakers.


I don't complain
because
here, I am,
typing of Dylan.
And, few people
make you type.