A back porch guitar man sends
a song into an alley. Sweat stains
his hat and baptizes his shirt.
He sings of cards, gin, smoke and lies.
Sure fingers free the fear he protects.
Pigeons rustle nervously above.
Strangers shuffle by, chasing
last night’s dreams. A cat circles a
trach can.
He pushes the song from a place
he keeps hidden.
Velvet sheets of rain drift over him.
Midnight calls him friend.
Roger Singer 