He came to town in the summer, when the ice is supposed to melt The coldest summer anybody here had ever felt He entertained us nightly with his stories and his songs Mostly sang of happy times when he could do no wrong
The bar wasn't much, and the regular crowd Drank and talked quietly, they seldom got loud He always kept our spirits up, just the smile on his face Could warm you like a roaring fire in the old stone fireplace
Seems that he had played for years with a traveling country band And all he wanted when he died was a guitar in his hand But he always played a solo, not even a duet And I wondered if his playing was some kind of private debt.
And I asked him why he came here, why he'd left the sun He said "Home is where the heart is, and mine has come undone" I never asked him more than that, but a troubled look appeared It was three good songs and a pint of beer before it disappeared
He left a few days later, said he heard a wandering call And he thanked us for the tips we left, the food and drink and all He said he thought it would be best to leave before the rain And promised that, if we were good, we’d hear from him again
Winter came with spring behind, and summer before long But no one had the faintest clue of where he might have gone Gone without a trace, they said, probably gone back home Somewhere where the sun shines bright, nevermore to roam
But I don’t think that’s where he is; I’d bet my stake on that And if he’s in a place called “home” I’ll gladly eat my hat For I hear his gentle playing in the sighing of the trees His lonesome voice is singing in every autumn breeze
His eyes are clearly shining in the crystal skies at night And though they think I’m crazy, I’m pretty sure I’m right That he has found another town far from the burning sun For home is where his heart is, although it’s come undone.
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Posted: Nov 2014
About this poem:
I don't know. This one just popped into my head. A gift from my muse.