ReturnToTheTarSands

He sits alone at the Greyhound station
In his hat, and his vest, and his old man shoes
He has done his work
And counted his coins
And has had enough of women and booze
He is a man of this sickly rich nation
And he likes my stories, he likes my attention
He smiles so warm
He shakes my hand with a pause
And he goes to Lethbridge
On a Greyhound bus

He comes on a truck with a tanker of gas
The modern day look
Of a cowboy with class
He tells stories of cattle and grass
And he breaks the myth
Of Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump
As someone struggles with a bicycle pump

He has seven gadgets
Attached to the meter
In the fresh-smelling basement of his yuppy new house
The sun shines right down
On his two little children
And his perfectly nice spouse
He secretly loves us in our raggedy, rough way
So he throws us a party
And he hides away
Either all of this goes
Or oil has to stay

He carries a guitar on the back of his bike
He is serious
And sweet
And funny
And deep
He likes to read stories, before we fall asleep
He notices red, the colour of fall
He sings some silly song about beers on the wall
He writes in a journal while riding really fast
He was wearing a smile when I saw him last
I’ll stop to walk with you in fields of golden wheat
And I’m happily in love
Until we again meet

Filed under: TTTS on October 17th, 2007