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.
Roger Singer 