Bob on Woody

I’ll sing songs out of tune
until the next wave breaks
against a concrete pier

and the moon is a door
the door is a window
the window opens slowly

distant meadow air enters
into the urban cocoon
bathed in the light of Chardonnay

on a night when an owl
hovers over its prey
in the light discarded

by two lovers arguing
forever concrete on the corner
of King and Frederick

where the tri-city bus stops
for a moment disgorging
the Saturday crowd

and the homeless parade
forth and back past
all the locked stores

forever not shopping
for designer brands
and bleeding edge gadgets

forever the masses
on a dirt road stretched
from east to west Europe

and it’s near the end
of the war when realignment
is being cleared like rubble

and all the songs which swim
in the winds of memory
are twisted into the knots

of loss and change and impossible metamorphosis.