He looked the part
Crumpled coat, dirty shoes
Hair down to the shoulders
Sunglasses perched atop the head
So much so that passersby said
You must be an artist
A poet, a painter, musician of some kind.
He smiled, winked
Dragged on a cigarette.
At home alone
Bottle in hand, it was enough
To play at dreams
The work, the time it really took
To bring an artist into being
Was just too much
Thank God, the bar was dark
He knew he didn't stand much of a chance with the chick
Her blue jeans tight, make-up running.
She'd seen so many of his kind before
Plugging nickels in a jukebox.
But what the hell, the night was young
The beer was cold, and a bitter bleak morning
Promised nothing more than wiping counters
and pouring coffee.
The cross rises out of the high ground
Above the freeway, like a mighty white
Sword stabbed provocatively into
The bosom of the heartland
Looking down with righteous indignation:
The thousands of Buddhists, Muslims
Atheists and Jews who
Bravely make their way
Through the narrow passages of hypocrisy
Toward the beckoning horizon
Of an American dream.