Troubadour

Troubadour

For Bob Dylan

Squatting in a corner
boot heels, Cuban styled.
Electric socket hair
you have let go wild.
Rhythm, rhyming lyrics
everywhere in time.

Stovepipe, pinstripes
on your chicken stands.
Cigarette burning, long ash,
in your calloused hand.
You can make a song that I
can understand.


Lindsay Riggs Brown