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