WALKING THE DIRT

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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