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

This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection CORNER OF MY MIND available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.