To be there when the Basement Tapes were written
to be the string on your guitar
both the C sharp and the D flat
at once on the piano
the film that loops together
under and over
and recorded it all.
To be the old carpet on the cool floor
the softness under your tapping feet
to be the musty air that danced around as you sang
a dark curl in your lion’s mane
a lovely dirty raspy note uttered from your lips.
To be carefree, happy, silly
the darkness at the corner of your eyes
to be your raging tears,
the B-side to your basement lullabies.