https://www.angelfire.com/art/letters/index.html
writegirl@altavista.com
Mr. Bob Dylan,
I rushed to you twice last week,
days between one another,
a 10-hour round trip to Des Moines.
One more, down to Springfield,
6 hours from Chicago.
Grass roots, asses pinned to bleachers,
full of expectancy of you.
You walked on stage, years stacked behind you,
ready to feed the crowd.
I drowned in everything that is you
jittery and about to burst.
I inhaled you,
lingering on every word.
I sang with you,
mixing my breath with yours.
My eyes feasted,
me adoring the sidelong glances.
KissPop!
Yet now back here in Chicago
my light has changed from fantasy
to one of profound sorrow.
How could you ever have anything normal,
anything sit-on-the-couch boring?
We feed on you,
and you know nothing more than to let us eat.
The Never-Ending Tour.
I promise to stand in a mutable silence ,
wrapping you in perennial admiration,
no longer chomping at your fly.
Your #1 Zillion Fan