Your tight blue torn jeans glided down the brick wall
Where you stood with your wife beater white against the cumbersome wall
Guitar in hand your eyes squinted out the bright sun
Mr. bob Dylan you said you were
And who would have second guessed

You said you lived in a wal-mart wasteland
Moved back into a hole in the wall from a rat infested shoebox called New York City
Picturesque as it was…artist living the dream of wayfarer bohemians
I was there too…vaguely remembered…as a drug hazed dream
You standing in a waist high overgrown weed field
In some industrial setting
Perfect blue sky background amidst the NYC high-rise skyline
Time stood still with each second the clock turned backwards to my youth

Clouds passed by as a five-o-clock mad rush of traffic
Child like charm in a red hued world
A single kite flew in the air with expressed smiles from a lad
The sky was the limit on imagination
Among the foreign language spoke by gypsy women mixing food
In the cobblestone parkway I called home
Wearing my cordoray pants I liked to touch and rub and feel each ribbed line
Tight black suspenders over my pale white shirt
And a matching fedora my old grandfather gave me before he died playing poker

I heard your voice as I played in the street, sitting on the steps of a hot box apartment
Lyrics you sang told a story which took me away from this inner city infestation
I wanted to close my eyes and dream your songs

05/08/2005

Posted on 05/08/2005
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