The leaves of his life float on
streams created by a curious desire
to be someplace else.
Dust turns up behind footsteps
soothing the travel born to him.
Heavy doors swing shut on the pain
of uncorrected loves and insincere
handshakes.
Clouds are his canopy of protection,
a mist of heaven, covering what
he has left.
Clenched fists remind him of youth,
the fire long buried in scars of his past.
He is a journeyman of the road.
A student of highways. I watch him leave.
Maybe for the last time.
Roger Singer 