Well, sort of.
I think I saw Jim Morrison today.
At the end of the hall,
his hand high on the wall,
nothing to say.

A Bell jet helmet in his hand,
chin strap swinging,
perhaps he sought his band,
wanted to start singing?

Perfect stance,
beyond any pose I've seen,
a natural nonchalance,
no need for second chance.
Right first time.

On with the lights,
He faded fast, retreated
undefeated, unbowed.
a *****, beautiful,
drug fuelled peacock,
eyes wide,
no shame to hide.

Wanted to ask him,
"Jim, was it you,
that gave Robbie that black eye?"
Or" was it the helmet your  brother
wore when he died?"
With a girl astride,
his bike throttle wide?

He wouldn't have said.
he's not my kind of dead.
He knows who he is,
and smiles at all this.
I can hear his boots still,
and shake with the  thrill.

Jim doen't give interviews,
nor read the news
that he once filled.
But he's still got that smile.
Saw it flash.
A smile, for me?
Ha, we'll see.

We almost hung out..