Sleeping in Dylan’s Room

No trace left
of his still-a-boy beery breath
on the bed sheet,
no trace of the sheet itself, of course,
but worse ways to spend the day’s end
than in this phantomless box,
my shoes, socks, jeans and shirt
on a floor no ghost walks,
my head on a different pillow
in a different time,
my sleep broken like line
breaks in free verse,
my clock regular as a villanelle’s rhyme
and worse ways to spend
the wound down day
than in (if not his) someone else’s bed
with someone else’s booze in my gut,
someone else’s poem in my head.
         John Lindley



About John Lindley

Poet and Creative Writing Tutor
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One Response to Sleeping in Dylan’s Room

  1. harryowen says:

    Excellent poem, John; I like it.
    The only thing I’ve ever written about DT is this:


    The muse? Amuse me with
    a bitter beer, bacardi, brandy, gin.
    I’m dry, he said, I’ll never write again.


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