he sits there, waiting. waiting.
on the corner of 25th and 8, his overcoat well-worn with the wisdom
of yesterday’s scraps and today’s dew.
guitar in hand – out of tune – strumming along to a song only
he remembers.
silhouettes pass him by, flashes of the rainbow, desaturated in
the rain-sent gloom.
and he sits there, waiting. waiting. waiting on the world to change.
fragme/ntsofme/mories 
would you collect all your poems and publish them one day?
Comment by Alissa — April 4, 2009 @ 9:19 am
probably not. I always feel a sense of mediocrity in retrospect when analysing my attempts at poetry.
sometimes you just want to … write. and the fulfillment of that desire is sometimes reward enough 🙂
Comment by ntsofme// — April 4, 2009 @ 2:24 pm