Sam Owens

There is a young man sitting in a bus station. He has been sitting there for some time. The sand and loam are beginning to dry on his boots and he carries on his lips a curious little expression. Periodically I watch him hum a little something and tap his knee. There are some children that have stopped to listen to one of his stories. I think their parents are secretly listening in. He rummages through his bag and pulls out some old dusty postcards and pictures of Sequoias and Aborigines. They all giggle a bit. Maybe if we are really quiet Maybelle, he will sing us a song.

Ah. I am just getting too caught up with Richard Cory and Otis Redding down in the basement arguing about if we should go out shouting in the streets or stay inside playing cards and fiddling with the overhead lamp. The coffee is steaming sticky on the stove in the corner and someone is waking up upstairs and stomping around with a Reagan mask laughing at the television. The light switches keep melting and I just want a decent piece of toast to lay down on and take a nap. But no one is really listening anymore right?

Then it's morning time and we keep on getting up and letting down; eating oatmeal and putting on our hat. Stepping out on the landing you might take in a breath of sea air and hobble down to Tony's to get nickel gum and a coffee. Somewhere there is the sound of drums. Never too green is my valley and I want you to come with me.