Dylan's Last Day

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New York withers in mean Fall.

Bitter slant of grave-grey rain,

Brown brick and startle of chrome.

Vertiginous city, the fire-escape its dripping canopy,

Coddling and grinding its children.

This enigma : vibrant and stripped-of-soul.

The Chelsea Hotel, resigned to November, nineteen-fifty-three.

Rumpled room, spirit-stinking,

Your airless sepulchre, choked with nameless poisons.

This bier ash-strewn already.

Meanwhile you reel along Third Avenue,

Squinting at daylight squeezed between steepling walls.

Behind you a lonely mortuary, purged by nameless nobodies.

There comes no scent of honest freshness,

No hint of motherly scouring, brow-beaded on pink knees.

Your ordure merely swilled away by different foulness,

In moon-bound cycle of pestilence and sterility.

The Pinniped Portfolio

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