I’m writing down this sonnet while watching
Pennebaker’s Don’t Look Back on TV
with Dylan in dim hotel room catching
phrases on bulged manual, each stiff key
clicking backup to Baez’s angelic
throat and strumming acoustic as she slumps
on light sofa, Grossman copacetic
leaning back in chair, legs crossed as feet thump
softly to guitar rhythms, and my view
wanders there and here—does Bobby (that’s what
old friends call him in those filmed interviews)
even hear my lovely Joanie (that’s what
I call women named Joan who I love) sing...
or sit tranced like me, seeing years fleeing?
Roger Armbrust
October 1, 2009
