worn weary
with a lifetime
on the road,
and cigarettes
and red wine,
his throat
warbles and croaks
as he sings
in the bright
light that still
shines on
his music.
a wide brimmed
hat, white like
a halo pulled
down and broken
upon his wiry
hair, sheilds
his blue eyes
as he stands
at the organ,
bending only
to the beat,
not time. his
feet move below
his red striped
pants. shoes
tapping
against yet
another stage.
he is at seventy
still defiant
still elusive.
still dylan.
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