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Tiburon
Looking out of place
“You 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 on the shores of Tiburon. The first thing that came to my mind was that this man is no sweeter here in Tiburon than in Cork in his native land.
The man’s voice has left rust in places where the 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.
At four in the afternoon, with the sun’s syrup falling over Sausalito, I hear his laughter and smell the odour 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 shined the Sausalito stones with words, if I could just turn his head, throw him a song, I may be gone.
He never confessed that he loved the music.
But the songs he sings beat their love on the air and in the hills above Sausalito.
Today, I’m an old guy looking out on the vastness of what once was considered potential, knowing that the faith I had in my parents’ warnings has been met.
I was going to fulfil all I wanted through my music. There wouldn’t be any recognition, only love, family, and wealth, but even at this age, there remains…
