a cigarette is sitting lazily on his lips,
lit for almost a day before he went to ash.
and in this time, these well worn shoes,
beaten and bruised from the constant
contact with the pavement, well
they've seen seasons change and
all the while they've walked on
down a road or two, supporting
the traveller:

a guitar slung over his shoulder
a button down that's been
beat down on by the sun,
and the kind of five o clock shadow
that tells you it's four fifty nine
(the next day).

he's afraid of ashing
that damn cigarette-
though he knows full well
he could easily light another one
just by setting it to the road
but

he also knows that where
something starts,
something else has to
end.
and
it's not that he would mind a change,
(the mirage and the desert
have become tiresome)
but

he loves those shoes
more than he does
anything
and he's not ready to
give them up.

03/11/2005

Posted on 03/12/2005
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams