You can be sad and sick to the bone
But there is one thing a writer knows…
You can always go home.
Home is the bar, the church or cafe
For those are the places where memories are made.
Where the old wrinkled man contemplates his beer
Or freakish young kids give bad poets false cheer.
He stares down the barrel of an age old cliché
But he knows all he knows is what he’s seen up til today.
Here in this place – a reversal of fates
with the hours of living time starting at eight.
Sunlight streams through the dust and a feather falls through
You look up to find weathered deep eyes looking at you.
She is cool water and stone in chaotic worlds
she takes your hand and asks “what troubles you girl?”
These are homes for the lost. One knows where to go.
You can be sad and unworthy
Sick to the bone
Can’t put on a show.
But one thing an artist knows
You can always go home.