Friday Afternoon Requiem

by Allen Guest

I hope Bob Dylan dies on
a sunny Friday afternoon in October,
say three o’clock or so, when
I’m looking for an excuse to stop
grading calculus tests. Upon getting
the news, I’ll pack my things up, lock
the door to my windowless office, and
head out for the east side of campus,
where I park my car.
I’ll walk slowly beneath
the blue-diamond sky, thumbs hooked
under the shoulder straps of my heavy
backpack; head up, squinting
as my eyes adjust
to the perfect tree-splintered light
that arrives on Fridays in the fall.

I’ll take the long route, the one
that passes the dorms.
I’ll hope to hear music drifting
from open windows,
maybe hear nineteen-year-old
boys shouting “how does it feel?” in
drunken unison, maybe even
catch a whiff of marijuana
and revolution in the air.
And no doubt I will be disappointed
to find closed windows and
clean air on our
smoke-free, revolution-free campus.

I’ll probably stop
a group of students out
walking and talking excitedly
about the upcoming football game.
I’ll ask them if they know
the Sage of Hibbing has left us.
I’ll try to explain that he, like Nostradamus, knew
all along what was going
to happen to them,
happen to me,
happen to everyone, everywhere.
He excavated
all that is holy,
all that is hollow,
and laid lessons out in song
like shards of ancient pottery
in a museum display case.

I suspect the students will
just back away slowly,
start texting friends about their
afternoon encounter
with a crazy professor,
and maybe, if they
are a bit curious, wonder
who Hibbing is.

And when I get to my car
on that fateful afternoon,
I’ll start it up, open all
the windows, turn
the stereo up good
and loud, let my story
be sung once again.
And again I’ll wonder
how he knew
that some would indeed
become mathematicians,
and somewhere, some
became carpenter’s wives,
doing what they,
what we
do with our lives,
the pieces
of broken pottery, separated
on a dark night,
tangled up
in our own
shades of blue.