Just when I think
I’m all alone,
a lonesome song
from a small-town
troubadour
floats through
my open
window.
I picture him
on the street
below, leaning
against a gas lamp,
eyes closed,
pain pouring
into a melody
so full of
beautiful longing
that I see
his soul,
colorful
on this black-and-white
night, and
I wonder
if he knows
he’s playing
my song.
Writer for
poet & writer. yogi. wanderer boldly going nowhere.