Poem: Song Writer

Climbing out of comfort to listen to a friend sing and play.

Song Writer

Don’t know why we did it,
home late and tired
on a weeknight,
smelling of the smoke
of that crummy saloon

I had a headache from one beer
Every once and again
having to convince myself,
that a beer would be a change
from the wine that’s kind to me

And she doesn’t drink,
but the office is a long day
Needs some quiet nights
and this wasn’t one
and we grinned, wondering why

Why we’d crawled out of the warmth,
into icy streets, bundled,
walking quickly to hear him,
because he’s a friend
and writes wonderful songs

So it goes with these friends who write
and sing in noisy saloons,
giving what they have to give,
to a half-interested crowd
and it was very cool indeed
Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman's
poetry collection

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