His Only Escape
He plays. Not an expression on his face,
his hands moving on their own, like magic,
up and down the frets, sometimes drawing
the bow like a weapon, sometimes plucking
like something possessed.
Not an expression on his face,
his blues buried deep, deep within,
all the pain, the loss, the struggle
far too painful for words, his only escape
About this poem
People talk to me. I must have one of those faces. And the stories. Oh my, the stories. A former pastor of mine used to say “If you knew what the person next to you was going through, you’d be a lot kinder.” The olders I get, the more I realize the truth in those words.
Be well. Be kind.
PS: The picture was taken at the Sterling Renaissance Faire a few years ago.