by Precious McKenzie
discovered Bob Dylan at thirty

rolled along to his tinny acoustic sound

(in my run down pick up truck)

gained enough confidence at thirty

to wear blue jeans that rode low and clung close

to my white hips

drank enough Jim Beam at thirty

to worship a porcelain goddess till midday

(and swore off the tonic for a time at least)

decided to swear like a sailor at thirty

in the middle of claustrophobic suburbia

during broad daylight

roared like a tiger at thirty

and left bloody, territorial claw marks

on his back

wrote and read day and night at thirty

to make it big (before forty)

dreamt of chances missed at thirty

and men not kissed at thirty

spent too much time wondering

the what-ifs at thirty

sin, vice and lust Catholically

controlled until thirty.
Precious McKenzie teaches British literature and
writing at the University of South Florida, Tampa,
and at New College of Florida. In her leisure time
she writes children's literature, short stories, and
poetry. Bob Dylan holds a special place in her heart.
Gemini Magazine