In Tiburon
A man can look out of place, he said. I looked at him, wondering how his bright feet had come to muzzle up against the gently breathing waves in Tiburon. The man’s voice has stained rust on places where musical gods have trodden. He looks at my words, this eternal mover of unmoving blues, and spits them into the bay waters to fester beneath the foaming scum.
I learned he’s no sweeter here than when in Cork.
But his songs, not mine, will beat their love on the air and in the hills above Sausalito.
At four in the afternoon, with the sun’s syrup falling over Sausalito, I hear his laughter, smell the odor of his leaving. The doors of the Green Inn can never be opened again. If I forget my pain, if I turn a page of gold, and shine my gift on the Sausalito stones, if I turn his head, throw him a song, then, maybe then, I can be gone.
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