How long had you sat besides that train,
the one make of brick and morter?
Kids clamored to you like a black Santa,
they came, and you entertained.

Named after a whiskey house,
Homer, his fit of inspiration.
What worlds he weaved with
only pure imagination.

Tell me that one about the guy
with the will to thwart the devil again,
or bob your head to music
you only seem to hear.

A cane in hand, no glasses
to hide your true gift.
An old bowler hat to collect
the absent kindness of people.

That bad-toothed grin you always had,
who you aimed it at, I never knew.
You were king in the lands of the blind,
though you didn't have an eye to see.

Had I been wiser or a better listener,
I would have written your tales of old.
Of renegades, heroes, damsels,
revolutionaries, and villians.

Blind-eyed Willie,
the streetside storyteller.
His book ended with a simple mugging,
two punks robbed a blind man.

12/26/2003

Posted on 12/27/2003
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