|E. J. Thorn|
What Do Gulls Know?
read by e j thorn
I leave New York and backtrack Dylan’s steps,
along the way I speak to some of those
on whom he’d left his mark; on whom he’d put
the hammer--and on every face: a grin.
The bay at which we dock I can’t pronounce,
it probably has other names - more apt:
Port Grime; Port Waste; Thick Smog Bay; Dead End Bay
--black-faced kids scrap like Vikings, just for fun
and there, on the quay, beaten into bronze -
Thomas watches every kick and punch
--a seagull on his head - about to shit,
about to offer negative critique.