Glenn
Poet
5/10/2008
20:37:01
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 Subject: saddletramp
IP: Logged
Message:
in my dream they call him the saddletramp.
he has a battered, pawn-shop guitar, rags
for clothes, a head full of lice and that far-
away look in his eye. he goes from town
to town, singing his strange songs in a
caustic growl of a voice. everyone knows
who he is, but no one knows him. he never
speaks except to sing. men back away
warily, women comfort him between white
sheets but fear he has stolen their soul.
after the fact, he smokes cigarettes, blows
rings of smoke that stay motionless in the air.
time warps around him, wraps around him.
his guitar strings tremble like a trapeze-
artists’ high-wire, make an odd music no
one can wash from their head. wherever
he goes there is the sound of this music,
invisible and insistent. the old horse
he rides staggers under the terrible weight.
he’s only a tiny man, yet his shadow is
enormous, darkens entire towns with light.
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