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


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.


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