Bye George (hello Haden)
That boy –no matter how you cut his bangs,
he looks just like a Beatle: One
of the two dead ones,
the half with sons of their own
to arrange the Rose Bowls full of
screaming girls for.
That quartet of livers almost gone now, their
pools all drained, the stuffing come out of
their teddies
yet somehow, this virtuostic air guitarist of mine,
this third-generation yeah-yeah-yeaher is
upstairs in his room, in the Ed Sullivan space
between his mirror and his tape deck, humming the
music hall skiffle, finding the beatitude inside the back beat
where it will forever
twist and shout.