Following up on my early morning Dylan listening, I’ve given myself the prompt to write a poem about a line from any song, choosing a line from “Visions of Johanna.”
I haven’t seen the house I shared
with two housemates I’ve since lost contact.
But, once your bed gets sold out from under
you – and after you painted the walls to grow themselves –
some phone numbers are easier to forget.
That summer, there was always a party.
There were always ants on the kitchen counter.
And I dated a boy who worked as a waiter
who wanted to be a photographer.
After getting off our respective shifts,
we’d meet on the covered porch, through which
the evening breeze blew
and we were lighter than Gatsby and Daisy in the cool night.
I would write stories and he would photograph them
and our certainty was its own redemption
for what other things we said
and can’t remember.