Friend

Dover Plains NY, Kingdom Hall Lawn. Stepping off the road, I pull the journal out to releave some thoughts that won't rest in my head, or as an excuse to rest complete with prop. Back a half a dozen miles ago at Cafe' 54 I met a great man. I would not know this if I stared at him, or thought while he talked. My legs were tired. My mouth was filled with thick fat noodles and chicken soup. The taste of my soup is forgotten except that it was good, and warmth came from it. He too was a traveling man. Everyone one knew him at the cafe'. Everybody called him something other than by his name, so that sadly his name fell to the floor if it was said at all. If he reads this I wish no offense. By his own mouth he is gaining on seventy years, but he was all of fifty by his frame and voice . His face was covered with black hair that is converting to silver. He was beautiful, although I know that this discriptive will strike the ear as odd. We all have images that we carry through life that hold us togeather inside. This man was a relitive by sight. Once he began to tell his stories of the open road I knew we were brothers. From state to state we told of sour police, deep canyons where a camper could hold up until society forgot him, places where the women smell like summer all the time, and most importantly how out feet respond to the falling leaves, geese, and memories that aren't even our own.
From Bisbee Az. to the Bad Lands, from Las Cruises Peak over bridges I've walked alone in the dark, I listened to this stranger move in my shoes.
The cold last night told him to change the deep cell in his camper, and plot some tar south. He said I was a omen. I was the crow on the wire. We both decided on New Orleans, but I know that know that I live in briar and brush, and New Orleans is bruised now. My feet are curious if the gumbo moon will shine over me. Still, we were signs for one another to peddle our wagons south.
My father was more of a special guest in my life. He is in the credits, mentioned in the opening song, but he has only been on the set twice. On this stool in Nowhere, N.Y. I met a nomadic man that could have cut me from his braid. I am thankful. I would have liked to share this trek with my father, as I would have so much of my life. The Creator has not forgotten me though, and he lends me faces from time to time with a full belly of words waiting in their mouths to feed to me. I am blessed.
We talk about cops alot, and shake downs. A local vet was busted in town last night for taking empties from a dumpster behind Cumberland Farms to recycle for the nickles. We are brave through all of stories we tell, until we talk about police with a title to make. Then we drop our voices, and our heads as if we talking about the dead. " If your not guilty , then you have nothing to hide," is not a song I was ever sung to sleep by.
Joe(?) and I part company but I passed my card. Even if I am nothing more than a good conversation, and a faded picture card on the mirror of his camper, it is a soft compliment to travel on wherever his journey takes him.