The lighting’s kept down, here
Except over the stage
Where black cans beam down
Bright red, blue, and green
On a man with a hollow guitar
In a long, leather jacket
Under a leather, western hat
His face too, like leather
A face clean, but with lines
And the beginning of a gray beard
Dark eyes, understanding
And at ease
It’s sanctuary here
From everyone he knows
He presses the strings to the frets
And strums
Sings out his day
His month, his year
Sings about Man
The machine, the slave
Thrown into life
To work for food
Sings about Man
The being, the soul
Who needs to do something
And to tell someone about it
When he’s sung out
He steps off stage
And walks out the door
Onto an empty street
Where lamps beam down
Orange cones of light
That he walks through, alone
To his car at a curb
He drives away, alone
Into the dark
To tomorrow’s problems
To tomorrow’s songs
Jim's Writing 