You, the Guitars and the Rhythm

The fire will burn out in the attic’s circle.
The guitars creak listlessly
Wrapped in your motley blanket
hands in your pockets, you shift
from foot to foot
in a threadbare rhythm
somehow all your own.

In the morning people will come
and want to tear the house down
and chase you off —
you, the guitars and the rhythm
and the memory of you, the guitars and the rhythm

and let them.

we’re already far away
since the night
we hitched a ride on the road
with you the guitars and the rhythm

some sickly, kind man picked us up
with you the guitars and the rhythm

and we believed that in the night
we were travelling toward our home
and in our home
with a motley blanket for a roof
and for a sky
and like you the guitars and the rhythm