Bob Dylan at the Poetry Reading

giving it a justification seemed
like sacrilege, but there he was,
at the back of the arena, the poets
readying their papers, a turbulence
in the air.

one man approached him, pointing
to the dais, his long hair greasy
and a smirk on his old face.

no groupies followed along,
he merely took a seat,
his smile
broader now as he
listened to quaint deliveries,
some sounding like the 1960s.

a grunt and he stood, reading
now, his guitar plunking some
vicious chords, his gravelly
voice mustering syllables,
some unknown, others
seeming to rhyme
before fading.

a poof of smoke, and the crowd
woke up, looking about, down
the long table, seeming
to hear but refusing somehow
to believe he was gone.