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

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