Saturday, they started coming in. They came in ships and boats. They came in planes, trains and automobiles. They came in, biking triking and hitch-hiking. They steamed and streamed from every direction.
There were the aged and the infirm, the halt and the lame, the sore in spirit, ancient faces and bad cases, old codgers and draft dodgers, long-time slackers, hackers and safecrackers, double dealers and ballerinas.
They came to pay their respects. To see what kind of moves he had left. They didn't have to wait long.
He showed. With his men behind him, he started it up and it was loud. Everybody grinned and turned up their hearing aids. He labored long and hard, and then he was gone.
Everybody streamed out, gratified. Going across the parking lot, I passed an old mariner with a plastic cup of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He had on a T shirt that said, "I can't march anymore." His hair in back hung in a little ring around his bald head like a little curtain down to his shoulders.
When he saw me, he said, "It wasn't too late! I hope I'll get to see him again!"
I said, "I'm sure he'll be back."
The old grizzler said, "I hope I'll be back!"
So do we all, brother.
2 comments:
I wasn't a Bob Dylan fan. I didn't DISlike him; I was just too busy raising babies to listen.
I liked your rhyming words!
Thank you.
Bob Dylan is a disease with me. But it's not communicable. I got infected in 1964 and I've been down with it ever since.
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