His hand slapped the backside
of the bass while busy fingers
snapped alive the strings into music
words he whispers during dreams.
When he’s half way around the world
he knows he’s finally half way home.
Curtains of clouds guide his direction
past empty diners and towns without
smiles.
He never feels lost when on the move;
strangers watch his steps, waiting for him
to leave.
He has respect for used cars and sweat stained
hats. Each possessing his spirit of having
been somewhere and someplace.
Orange is his favorite color. His arms are
tan and his neck wrinkled with miles.
Black shoes provide a humble escape.
Roger Singer 