I have captured a soul

in Times New Roman,

size twelve,

double spaced.



Her name is Ann.

All the words are there,

living quietly on page 27.



I have used every letter,

in her body and soul.

Like each dot,

of an impressionist painting.



She burns

like the fire that burnt Bob Dylan's voice.

She is a part of me,

because I am Bob Dylan's blue eyed son.



And I have seen.



But she has lived.



She walked around New England,

and if you look carefully at the dirt,

you can see the prints of her green Converse.

She took a train from Madrid to Berlin,

and met a woman with no smile

but a laugh that made her weep.



She has shaken the hand of

a man with a straw hat

and no shoes.



He has a pair of green Converse now.



She walked from Tehran to Mecca,

only to be turned away from the gates.

She keeps a tin of sand in her backpack,

from the holy land.

She didn't cover her arms.

On cold nights,

she'll take the smallest grain,

and let it roll across her palm.

It makes her warm when it settles

into her lifeline.



She walked the length

of the Trans-Siberian.

She spent the night,

in a one room apartment

with twelve other people.

She slept next to a man

who spoke no English,

but put his cap on her head.

??????? ??? ???????.



She rested her head

on every bed

in every hostel

in every city

of Italy.



She loved a man in Johannesburg.

She loved a woman in Osaka.

She loved herself when she returned home,

back on page 27.

She settled back in,

to familiar size twelve Times New Roman,

double spaced of course.

She stretched her legs

over into page 28,

but I didn't mind.



She deserved the extra room.