Hey, Mr Dylan

Hey, Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me— in the jingle-jangle morning, I’ll follow you. Like my nan, slippers tapping, buttered toast, kitchen radio. She’d sway while evening’s empire turned to sand, vanishing from her hand, eyes wide, still not sleeping. Grandad called him “the boy with a tambourine soul,” said he took the badge off, laid his guns down— “Can’t shoot them anymore.” He laughed with the tramp, dealt with shadows, followed smoke rings through time. Mom caught him on cassette—side A, side B, in eyeliner, safety pins and anarchy. She’d quote, “You ain’t got nothing to lose,” above her Docs. She rode a chrome horse skipping school, blasting, “How does it feel?!” through a Walkman with stickers. Then came me—1995: Tamagotchis, dial-up tones, burnt CDs, LimeWire ghosts. Dylan low in lo-fi, hidden between Nirvana and Spice Girls. I played. He said: “Take me on a trip upon your magic swirling ship— my senses stripped, my hands can’t grip.” And I was gone— boot heels wandering, fading into my parade. No home, like a rolling stone. I followed through frightened trees, past frozen leaves to the beach, far from twisted sorrow— one hand waved free. I danced. Circled by circus sands, I let memory and fate sink beneath. Let me forget today— until tomorrow. I sang Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door to a mate too young. Dark cloud falling, eyes wide like Dylan’s lost passport. He knew no words but felt rhythm— slow and steady like grief that rhymes. I scrolled through changing times, TikToks, Brexit, Twitter storms, but there he was— “Come writers and critics who prophesise with your pen,” he warned, in a forgotten playlist. I turned it up. “Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block the hall— for the times they are a-changin’!” And they were. And are. And always will be. From Pokémon cards to climate dread, we better start swimmin’, or sink like stones. Sometimes I feel knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s comments— asking how does it feel? as I scroll a tab left open too long. Invisible, no secrets left, Dylan nods above, rhyme on his heels. I wasn’t born to this— but I inherited it. Like freckles, stubbornness, or how we pause at harmonica’s cry. It’s in the way my nan swayed washing dishes, mom smoked by the window, and I sit here now, searching for meaning in the jingle, jangle, morning, man. So hey, Mr Tambourine Man— still not sleepy, no place going. But I’ll follow you, through rhyme, and time, and all the rolling songs never finished.