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Only Bob Dylan Is Bob Dylan

the poet sits on a dark park bench
drinking mad dog 2020 with a drunk
a crumpled penthouse invite
in his pocket
the clever ones complain
while drinking champagne
impressed with themselves for changing
poetry's worn out face:
when metaphors could be understood
they were no good
the drunk never puts another
in his place
this man of the streets got the beat
he knows all carts and cargo weigh the same
he sits with just one face his red eyes watching
those hard-yoked eyes have seen it all before
he's seen the new emperors
in their fashionable clothes
ragged rumplestiltskins failing
to spin their straw to gold
the moon is missing the booze is gone
the poet pats the old drunk's hands,
before going home to write
a pulitzer prize winner poem
unconcerned with the causes of clever
just thinking about sitting on a dark park bench
finding a face for that moon

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content


I was sure that I commented on this poem, and so did a few others... don't know what happened to the responses. great poem, it slowly washes over a person...I love it. good title and great imagery!

*hugs, Cat


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