DYLAN AT THE BEAT MUSEUM
I went to the beat museum
but they wanted eight dollars.
Eight dollars of my hard earned money.
Eight dollars of my cracking eggs for the people on the sidewalk.
Eight dollars of slicing peppers and peeling onions in a kitchen
inside a truck.
Eight dollars of my eyes weeping as I slice.
Eight dollars, man.
For eight dollars I could buy a roll of paper
or a typewriter ribbon
to unroll my blood, sweat, and tears
down Woody Guthrie’s ribbon of highway
in this, MY land
of Earth, Wind, and Fire
all the way home.
I stand with my hand out
on the sidewalk.
Not asking for eggs, or egg money or pin money or pin numbers
Not asking for a lower tax rate or higher fences
or to sanctify gay marriage or to marry a sanctimonious bastard.
for eight dollars.
to see some Beats.
I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for the Beat Museum today.
Can I borrow eight dollars, man?