Troubadour, For Clyde, Dwight, And Tim Poem by Eric Cockrell

the troubadour...
sleeps neath the willow that weeps,
wipes stone dust from his lips,
passes out pieces of heart.
for a glass of wine,
a quiet corner table...
he unfolds his souls,
and the tales of his lives.
catch a D chord,
on a blue night B minor.
loves gained, loves lost,
like stardust on his hat.
his worn boots a prayer,
that common people know.
the light in his eyes,
unlocks doors and heals wounds.
his voice left hanging,
smoke from factories long gone.
his footprints fade,
but not the scars on his heart.
a song, a twinkle,
and back on the road...
leaving photographs of memories
to kiss you goodnight!