Bob Dylan & a room of us alone, all making music or dreaming of musicians so the dishes go unwashed but I open my hand to Nick's fingers under the blanket 'cause I don't make music and don't want to wash dishes.
The lot of us don't make poetry without the first person pronoun but I tell you I get in my car and go there day after day because my joy is the freshly mown lawn against my back applauding as the boys try on jacket after jacket after jacket
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