Americana.

Americana.

When I hear the harmonica

I think of America.

Caught up in

A Springsteen dream,

With Sonny Terry

And Brownie McGhee.

A wonder of soulful blues

Drifting by in my slipstream,

Rolling like thunder,

Blowing up a storm,

Like Kerouac,

Leaning hard

Into a Dylan wind.

We drive to the sound

Of old men singing

Sad songs,

That simply melt in the air.

You can almost see the

Music rise,

In the haze

From the black top.

I don’t think twice

About it,

Just hit the road

And drive through the night,

With you by my side,

A couple of beers

Kept cool in an ice box,

And look for a place to stop.

Even though heat rises

It still gets colder

The higher up you go.

We park on

The far side of the hill

And lie on the hood,

To watch a light show

In the northern sky,

Different to the city glow,

And discuss solutions

To the problem

Of light pollution,

Until we are forced to laugh,

When it rains

Out of a seascape sky,

Falling so hard

It bursts the storm drains.

And as day breaks

We drive right back

To the day jobs.

For just one night

We lay under

A high and wide,

American sky

Full of thunder.

And for a little while

Both you and me

Were boundless,

Bountiful

And free.