Leaving Minnesota on train or buses, crowded and alone, were you fearful to sleep on couches and of the Village people with a rhapsody of dreams
and cacophony of chords, under rain and sewer stank was it hard, to step inside and play the first time for glistening eyes and stage lights and to let melody escape your belly-throat
for them, or did you know more, that words can sculpt delicacy as smooth as Donatello and that life can be bought without wrinkled greens and pressed
threads? Walking under a hard-rain of assumption and change, did Greenwich birth a demon-sadness, so you hid your neck beneath collars and dark glasses and smoky rhyme, when the ship
comes in will you be onboard or escape to Louisiana, misunderstood, working a river boat after you give Lennon a puff and Warhol a tight-fist?
Did sad-eyed Sara send you back leather spanish boots or forget, and was Christ able to mend that broken love, and did you later kick his idiot wind away and in 2009 on stage when I could see emptiness and heartbreak hidden underneath your creased stetson, were you still singing it ain't me, babe?