I once met a man
who baked cookies for breakfast
with chocolate chips inside.
The people I knew thought that
this was strange but I didn't think
it strange at all, because I couldn't
help wonder that if this man
made cookies for breakfast,
what else could he do with his mind.
this man was making music,
a voice that went unnoticed
except to a very few.
It wasn't the kind of music you're thinking of
as far as I could tell.
It was that soft slow waltz.
It was that quarter note of a life deferred.
His music, it comes from a chord,
that he wants to record.
Stolen, some may claim,
from the outer reaches of the atmosphere,
kept hidden on the pages until more lines unfold.
He doesn't exactly know how one note leads to another
as he sits staring onto the page.
Sometimes for minutes or even hours
until some voice inside,
whether in dreams when he is sleeping
or the sound of the song when he is awake,
tells him the time is ripe for reaping.
And this same man had unopened letters in his pocket
with a red rubber band wrapped around.
The people I knew thought that this was strange,
but I didn't think it strange at all because I couldn't help wonder
that if this man had unopened letters in his pocket,
what other dreams of his were deferred.
And who's to say that this man who no one knew,
standing there, making music,
wasn't looking out his window
noticing and wondering all that he sees.
Could it be mine of some other face.....
......less in the crowd
haunted by the former days
of when our words were buried
hidden between the fragments on the blue-inked page.
And this man,
singing out that whole note
no longer had his dreams denied
while we lingered there
waiting for the sunny day that never came
filling in the blanks that were cut and pasted to our soul
wishing for the bell to ring
to chase the dreams that others hold.
Our dreams postponed....