It Was Just Another Winter by Alan Catlin

of Bob Dylan and death
nineteen sixty whatever
and the kid who sat next
to me in Medieval History
had jumped off the Hotel Utica
after mid-term failing grades
had gone out and no one would
sit in that seat as if they too might
go over the edge or that the chair
was haunted by his spirit, the same
kind of spirit I saw in her eyes
dancing close to me, to “Like a
Rolling Stone”, the long version,
at some beer blast just this side of
ice hell, vocals by some local loser
who couldn’t carry a tune, hold a note,
but who knew all the words which is
what I was listening for, her body so
close to mine, I thought we were almost
one, both of her arms, her hands locked
around my neck, her lips on mine,
her tongue, and then she was saying,
“Love me just like a woman.”
And I wondered who her fancyman was,
wondered where he had gone and why me?
The scent of her, the taste, this girl
from the north country like the Dylan
folk song I loved but where was I?
My head full of confusion boats,
crazy dreams and cheap beer,
incapable of love. “I can’t.” I said.
“Make believe,” she said, “and I will too.”
Then she kissed me hard and long
and deeply as if she really meant it.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

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