Home is Where the Heart is

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.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Nov 2014
About this poem:
I don't know. This one just popped into my head. A gift from my muse.

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