WITHOUT HOME

His guitar had a better voice

and face.  He played out the words

like a sweet dessert.  Pain and loss

was his shirt and untied shoes, pasted

to a long and light frame.

He washes his beard in the rain.

Clouds are his blankets and the ground

his pillow where dreams fade away.

There’s a river to carry him out of side

cities and glances of hate.  He once

had a dog but food became an issue.

Todays the best day to sing he mumbles.

Tomorrow slips in without verses; the guitar

has no better friend.

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