The dust of towns, flat, lifeless.
Cold winds and red neon’s fill the need
of his searching as he walks the dirt.
A song with flavor branded in his head
and on his arm, marches his feet to travel;
all places look the same.
His guitar breathes with sound; a crooked
smile slides from his face.
The jazz releases, calling listeners
to his side.
The next town ain’t that far,
for feet walking the dirt.
Roger Singer 