He takes what he gets,

and carries nothing.

A traveler without a suitcase,

wearing just a smile and a song.

He tells a compelling tale,

and draws his audience.

Moving on even as they are moved.

For in his world,

there are no waiting rooms,

and no walls.

He spins a tender yarn

not to deceive,

just to please

at that moment.

Cleared out as a habit.

He has his mates.

They are all special.

He does not differentiate.

Yet he wakes up alone.

There is a tiny space.

It hides

in the shadows of crowds,

of honeyed words,

of floating clouds.

Just one small little fragment

that opens to the skies.

This is his temple

and he,

a priest,

wandering in the land he created.

I was with him once.

I saw his story

as he flipped through mine.

Lover, I,

intoxicated, bewildered, thrilled, distracted.

Before

I made myself absent

like a disappearing rainbow

I gave him a gift.

A walk that is blind.

My ink’s not dry yet.

The tide’s turned.

Traveler he,

did he give himself a chance?