Poetess IV : North Country and Bob Dylan

Thunder on the crooked highway
As you strolled , and the storm brewed across
Restless, lonesome vision of June
You feared the liquor roads, the green miles
And my tobacco firm, slain in the gutter
An empty ashtray , where you would once poke
With your slender fingers, stingy disapproval
And as the freewheeling poet sang in the radio
You would stumble, in merry
Rain would be falling, on my broken window panes
Seething down the ceiling, creeping along your skin
You and I never talked much,
But as the storm would die on the jingles and tangos
Your weariness flew across the empty North country roads
You preached conscience, depravity and love, that
The smoke rings of my vacant mind refused -
The cricket chirping alleys, lonely North country meadows
Not even a note, you left with the monsoon..