Guitar wailing, low and bluesy, sweet and low,
Evocative, perfect for a morning burdened with snow
and yearnings, smoky music, lost in a beer music
even if for you it is coffee and scrambled eggs
and memories of people you never quite met,
love almost had, wisdom almost learned,
untaken paths led by books and poems, a belief
that life is best built by magic than facts.
About this poem.
Plowed out from the snow this morning. Gary Moore, an Irish bluesman playing at my favorite diner as I think over all the worlds I have lived in books and poetry and words. I am accused of being practical and efficient quite often, but more of me feels almost fictional.
I think I need another cup of coffee. Waitress!