>He’s closer than a boxcar serenade.
Two bar stools, six whiskeys in.
Dirty feet swaying on a creaky floor.
Its 4 am, he’s
closer than can ever be sure.
He’s a map
threadbare flannel over
acid stomach and smoky corners.
A map shaky, glass knees
under steering wheels on
some road. Just a spinning globe.
He’s as constant as the shedding of a snake’s skin,
tin cans rusting into desert sand.
He’s got rough fingers to
write down songs with and
He’s closer than a steam engine whistle at night
Four tires, three thousand miles away.
Dirty fingernails, breaking against guitar strings.
Its too late,
he’s as constant as sweat covered sheets,
empty coffee cups, waterfalls
floating fallen trees downstream.
I’ve never written songs
But those rough fingers
Help me to sing.