There was a dollar bill tucked in his pocket.
A scribbled note that read Love.
He had a moment to talk with his new friends.
And a dollar bill tucked in his pocket from the change
from the tip cup. And his name was Never Again.
He was black listed and the clubs were owned and dangerous.
He preferred the coffee shops in the very small towns for a meal in the US.
And his name was Lightning because you had seen something
come and go and maybe not return in your life. He liked working
in stores and he liked Europe where there wasn’t a mob
owning the pubs. His name was Lightning. And he had learned
as a linguist a technical skill. He could lock his memories
to keep what was private private. So when he was
outside of his hometown he lived and when he was in town
he often cried in his sleep not knowing what he was crying for.
What was the trick? It was called not talking about it.
His name was Lightning and he played the guitar like
broken glass as a gift to those in the room. A thirteen-year-old boy
in the seventies whose eyes inadvertently watched hands that
moved too quickly, who was in love with the room. In love.
September 