Mr. Tambourine Man.

You’re still getting older, and I’m
still worried, whether you carry
your umbrella when it rains
And I believed every time you
held out your thumb, you
could make auto rickshaws stop
before you
got in, and I thought it was pretty
heroic, how you could
sing with your arms closed
and wrap heartbreaks
in a voice, that
trembles, every time
you talk of her

You’re not getting any younger, and
I’m still listening to you sing
over and over again, at
that bar down in
Paris, and over the radio
station that only plays

The bartenders around here
are better looking though, and
at midnight,
every song seems to urge you
to kiss, and every time
I open my lips to fit in
your name comes
floating in the

(For Bob Dylan, and belated birthday wishes)
Photo: Ritu Nichani.