Woody’s last dance

The Legend is writhing,

wavering, flicking.

Still singing the mankind.

Inside.

Where Huntington is just a place in Long Island.

And his spirit travels the landscapes

of Dust Bowl America,

with hobos and tramps and bums,

hoping machines with clear

or no destinations.

Out here in Queens

neural forces beyond control

conspire to keep his travelin’ and wanderin’

painfully out of reach.

Still, all we can see

is the lawless ballet of a weirdo.

Something to fear,

conceal,

disremember.

The tortured body meets the eye.

Image courtesy of severija/iStock