“Someone told me that when he sings this song
in concert now, he says ‘allusion’ instead
of ‘illusion.’”
 “What?” Passing the runaway truck ramp north
on the Five, they sunk into Bakersfield,
the first words they’d spoken since Ventura.
She had to holler above the wind noise :
“The song – it goes il-lusion on the tape,
but –”
 “Oh, I’ve heard this song so many times now
I don’t even pay attention anymore.”
 “That’s probably why he changes his songs
in concert.” Wind noise hid her annoyance.
An over-sized pickup passing on the left
drowned out the music.
 “Wait –”
 “What?”
 “Rewind it.”
Music stopped, the cassette squealed under the din
of wind turbulence. She hit play. “See here…”
She turned the volume up. “Oh, wait –” she pushed
fast-forward, then hit play again, “See, here
he sings, ‘the people we used to know, they’re
an illusion to me now.’ In concert
he says ‘allusion.’”
 “Allusion?”
 “No. Allusion.”
“Like ghosts?”
 “Not ill!” she raised her voice still. “Uh –”
Uh-lou-zhun!” The song ended and the last
part of the word stood out like a signpost.
He said, “Right. Allusion. Isn’t that what I said?”