Thursday, February 4, 2010

Spoken words

The Vagabond Artists

There seems something almost comforting
about that afternoon of idle chat
With a stranger in passing
over a musty cup of tea
Hours too cold to drink with any enthusiasm

We sat in appreciation for each others' words, lives,
A chance to converse with no recourse
No judgement passed on previous accomplishments, mistakes
And no fear to live up to expectations
for another as enlightened a conversation

All I knew was what he wanted to tell me -
His name, Billy, I knew from the CD he held
of his music, his love,
His beat-worn fingers staccato drumming
his passion for his craft
on the laminate checkered table
Smudged with the breath of its last inhabitants

He thought me an artist, a vagabond with a sharp wit
and an etheral outlook on life
A fellow artistic soul to jive, to jam,
To bounce ideas off of, with renewed optimism
for the human race.

And as I drove away
in my melded steel and rubber chariot
I thought about how one, 20-minute conversation
could last a lifetime in memory
and cause me to slow enough
to decipher his rhythmic drum
in the ticking of every clock.

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