Deep in the hidden valley where pink orchids grow
a Bob Dylan look alike sits on a boulder
and read a book about the Shoguns
when not strumming his battered guitar
or fishing for eels,
which blood he uses to write songs
that one day will make him famous
but only if he loses his NYY cap.
Orchids are no longer pink
but dark as dead eels’ ink
he has no paper to write on
his guitar lacks strings
sirens wails crack heads scream here
in this sink estate
where life is cheap
and beauty is a name
no one even dares whisper.