Travelers

Travelers



Men speak of roads
as if they were travelers
and cast down their dice
before the open stores.

Pocketfuls of dollar bills
spill out into the landscape
of aged and faded parking lines.

There are worn jeans
and plaid shirts
suspenders on grey haired men.

There are smiles
of gap and gold
and frowning hopeful
hands shaking to breathless chants.

Come seven.
Come seven.
Come seven to save me
the heartbreak of standing corners.

I know the road
they may say
but they do not know the road.

Come seven.
Come seven.
And save me.