The body steps out on the front porch

like Bob Dylan on the Globen stage,

and is immediately struck by the rays of the morning sun

demanding free access to people & livestock,

just as the audience's unrestrained demands

for access to the bard's every nook & cranny;

yes, like the violence of terrorist leader Netanyahu

against unprotected civilians in Gaza's "safe zones"

The wind rises in the thickets, shakes the trees

like the Hague tribunal's summons

of mass murderer Putin et consortes

The thunder starts its sound effects

mimicking the free world's belated weapon arsenals

rumbling over the plains at Ukraine's front lines

against the criminal state in the east

The rain crosses the fields

dressed in a sou'wester and sea boots,

slanted under passing clouds;

the low-pressure's cleaning rag wrung out

to the last basement flood

Bob Dylan nods without a word,

the stage empties,

and hordes pour out into the anthill night

from Globen's gaping evacuation openings

The body on the front porch retreats

into the house

and the persistent security of a previous life,

armed with protractor and slide rule