Borders is my favorite place in the world to hang out. Sad, maybe. But I like it. There are many regulars who evidently share my sentiment because I always see them there. One guy in particular stands out. He hangs outside playing his guitar. One day I sat outside while he played, and wrote the following poem. But it needed a title, and I knew the title had to be his name. I didn’t feel comfortable saying, “Excuse me. I just wrote a poem about you. What’s your name?” so I left it untitled. But as I was leaving, his sheet music flew my way. He thanked me as I gave it back to him, after reading his name at the top of the page.
I overheard him say he’s a lawyer.
And I thought he was just some
Bald-headed, blue jeans, gi-tar playin’
Who strummed outside the bookstore
Just because he’s a free spirit.
I like to sit at the frail, metal table
Listening to him.
As he plays
I’m reminded of love,
And when it gets too cold,
I sit at the frail, metal table.
Because I want to be reminded—