zimmy

i saw the ghost of bobbo on a baseball field in new jersey.
it really was him, wide-brim Panama hat and long purple jacket,
he didn't acknowledge me.
he had no eyes just water blue, pools, and surprised us with smiles.
he croaked, and the songs were all different.
there he was, unabashed and smokey,

my Woody Guthrie in the summer and all i could do was hum