Sunday as the sun goes down,
We trudge up the green grass
of Rothbury Hill, feet dragging
and lawn chairs clacking against
the backs of our legs.
We spy a vacant spot
between a family with an infant
napping in a red Radio Flyer wagon
with flowers wedged in its rusted wheels,
and a rowdy crowd in tye-dye t-shirts
passing the jug around.
We plop down on the festival ground,
run ragged by this
footrace from reality,
Friday and Saturday's fun
sitting heavy on our shoulders,
But then, out he comes,
the man in the black cowboy hat
who's shed more skins than a snake,
whose name itself
is a legend.
It's Bob Dylan, the latest version,
singing with gravel on his vocal chords,
pounding a piano behind a wailing
six-man band, and he sounds
fresh.
Fresh as the first time I heard,
How does it feel? To be on your own?
Fresh as when I got hooked by
this rock n roll poet.
Fresh on the cusp of a Sunday evening,
as the sun gives ways to stage lights,
this music that lifts us out of our chairs
and our minds and reminds us
how easy it is
to be alive.