The Ballad of Bob Dylan's Roadie
My job used to be easy
carrying the one guitar
a microphone
a speaker or two.
The harmonica you carried yourself.
Yet as the ballads got shorter
The sound got louder
The crowd got restless
The message got lost.
Yet on paper it never really left.
You became an entourage.
I got lost in the chaos of
guitar strings and egos
motorbikes and crucifixes.
Fan mail. Hate mail.
At times I stand
away from sight
[always]
and I swear I’m back at the beginning
when not having anything
said everything
there was to say.
(2015)
