I called Marcos to get the full story
that he’d told me back in the day,
how his AP History teacher
had been Bob Dylan’s History teacher
a couple or thirty years prior.

I wanted Marcos to regale me
with the story he’d shared
so long ago
before the dropout
and the drugs
and the hospitalization
and the moves and marriages
and adventures in other areas of the nation.

I hoped Marcos would have something to tell me
about Bob Dylan’s education
and what it shared with his own
and how madness and majesty
can be kissing cousins
and we are all
just a few degrees of appreciation
away from one another. 

I wished to be connected somehow
with the man who made me feel his love.
I hoped a tale from his schooldays
from sixty years ago could bridge our gap
but Marcos had nothing to share
and so, I guess,
neither do I.