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
A bother.
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
Cowboy-booted buckaroos
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 whiteSword stabbed provocatively into
The bosom of the heartlandLooking down with righteous indignation:
The thousands of Buddhists, MuslimsAtheists and Jews who
Bravely make their wayAlbeit uncomfortably
Through the narrow passages of hypocrisyToward the beckoning horizon
Of an American dream.