Baby Boom

Listening to Dylan
in a dark room, the future
unfolding in the semaphore
of street lights, grackle
defines the sun low,
blowing off a spring day,
and I never crossed Canada,
never left my mind
dangling on a street light,
a hydro line linking
one side of desolation
with the other, never saw
reality through the fog
of smoke and beer, never
strolled the politics
of love and war, never
carried flowers to the altar
of coffee on Yonge Street,
five o’clock, Bay Street
emptying and all the musicians
tuning up for another night
leading into morning,
just before rush hour,
just before the TSX begins
to spin out the fairytale
story of wealth, though Bob
always had another idea
of the meaning of life,
yet it’s so hard, so hard
to leave the present behind
and accept a future of
lyric-driven reality.