there in the dregs of
a new york city summer
he strums his black guitar,
then leans into the microphone,
and another voice floats out
of the stillness to join his, still
looking, after all these years,
for america.
my mother was
younger then than i am now,
just as i am myself older than
when i first heard the song and learned
to hit the harmonies, somewhere
in the golden days summer days
i can’t recall. they were younger too,
voices strong and emotions raw
as we careened down the freeway
together, windows wide open
and the radio cranked up high
above the roar of the wind.
here in the long and dry days
of a midwestern midsummer
the familiar chords twang softly
from the speakers, and paul
and art twine their voices together
in a new harmony, one made
for men no longer boys. i find
the third note as i hit the
entrance ramp; once more
we go flying down the highway,
an undiscovered country
beckoning us onward.
