I join up, this moment,
with the me that was I
when I set out
on my Dylan tour of 1977,
drawing my study loan
out of my bank account,
transforming the cash
into traveller's cheques
of the era,
stepping into a travel bureau
in downtown Stockholm

a backpack over my shoulder,
a change of clothes,
a camera, some b/a film

boarding the SAS machine
a week later,
sitting down to plan the Dylan tour
at my old friend Bob Goldman's place
at 229 E 89 St, between 2nd & 3rd Ave.
before riding a Minnesota-bound Greyhound
to Duluth,
a Greyhound up to Hibbing;

cold February,
knocking on doors,
knocking on Dylan's uncle's door,
on Paul Zimmerman's door;
chatting, taking pictures
with my East German Praktica,
retreating through the snow and chill
to The Avalon Hotel,
getting a ride in an old pick-up
by a nice local

catching a Greyhound
out to San Francisco,
a bed at a hotel
on O'Farrell Street
and a whole load
of Dylan vinyl bootlegs
from The Rolling Thunder of 1975
at The Wharf;
It Ain't Mr Babe,
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll;

a Greyhound to L.A.,
hitching a ride out to Malibu,
stepping onto Dylan ground
at his estate,
escorted out to neutral ground
by a friendly but stern guard,
who seemed used to John The Baptists;
the Pacific glittering in the haze
below Dylan's pinnacles and towers

and thus the Dylan Tour of 1977
finished,
recalled, quite lively,
this afternoon in 2020,
the content of Dylan's Rolling Thunder Tour
of 1975
in the laser box,
exploding with creativity
in my retreat,
in my head,
and across the open pages
of my notebook