Sometimes I think of Javier
Of the man who had killed another and lost the woman he loved
of the way he had wandered alone and lost in a world that viewed him with suspicion
of Dutch who had found him, warmed him and took him in
From deserts to plains to mountains
to islands and places familiar and foreign
loss, bitter and cruel
triumph
happiness
It curls like the dust on an old town's road
I think of his guitar
strings rusted and slack
how he may have looked at it from time to time
shaken the dust off and put it into position
how his fingers fell into the familiar grooves
poised over the strings ready to play
voices echoing through his head
Songs flying off his lips
How his body refused to move
A life half lived
and then expired
A return to the place that hadn't changed
Maybe his life would have been different
But I think it would always have been the same
He never had a chance