Still water, a skating rink if it weren’t summer.
In the distance rollin’ in, an angered cloud of concrete,
a California bummer.
August’s warm breath was circling, whistling in defense
and all the while this legend wrestled
with six strings and a conscience.
An empty wooden rocker, more a man than a chair
Strums along with an eye to the horizon,
lathered dreads to match his Eastwood stare.
That sandpaper face, a wrinkle for every year
now hides the empty bottle of Jack,
a reservoir for every fear.
He hums heavily, patiently… waiting for the reaper
as the trees fade to rusted shells;
his pulse is racing, digging deeper.
And this rusty old acoustic, prized possession and kindred soul,
buried in it nearin’ five decades
in water as good as any gravedigger’s hole.
Play on, play on… through the streets into the suburbs.
Through what used to be the old town square
for the conscious children and the trash on the curbs.
With contempt for the fiction that spans across the ocean
and understanding that the truth is in the soundtrack,
we’ve come to find that death may be the only true emotion.