Like they woke up trapped
in a Bob Dylan song
between a stack of rickety rocking chairs
and a small band of musicians playing
sad accordions and clarinets

Like they fell back into the Sixties
as if it were a tie-dyed mattress
upon which they’d learned
to screw and sleep with select randoms
Like they can’t get up without groaning
from the broken springs
but that’s the bed they chose to lie in

Like they hoarded money
Keeping it in bags woven from hemp
trimmed in beaten-up motorcycle leather
then crawled in and forgot to come out again

Like they put their hands over their ears
and said it was all alright

Like they heard some fancy blues
and said it was authentic tonic for the times

Like they’d
once upon a time
traveled the whole white world
seeking redemption
found a facsimile
called it good
and stayed stuck
in a rocking chair praising St. Bob
to the sound of wheezing
as they began to drown
in the new morning flood