Thursday after my show in Kinston, I stay in town, having no gig, and having a sweet deal on my motel room (THANKS Janet!).  So I wander through the mall, pick up a Mother's Day present for my grandma (already got Mom covered), catch a movie, and later return to Next Door for the live band and fun for Cinco de Mayo.  During this May 5th, I write this poem:

 

"555"

 

Itís strange to be here.

Only when I stop to wonder if itís strange.

Gray skies, flat land, newly green trees,

Vaguely populated, possibly abandoned, attemptedly developed.

I think itís cool now, but Iíd still rather not wear a jacket.

I think the raindrops will make my hair curlier now for tonight.

The fifth of May, will I find a bar?

I hear wind whistling past the construction dumpster

In the empty parking lot.

I think how Iím near the coast

And a hurricane has probably passed over here.

I wonder what itís like

To walk in this parking lot,

Like Iím doing now,

Except during a hurricane.

Is there such a thing as a calm wind?

A gray day?

It is strange to be here

In this sad town with a lousy mall.

Strange to me because of the way life brought me here.

Strange to me as I think,

Despite the strangeness,

I will forget this moment.

I think how I will forget this moment.

It is my whole world right now.

The gray, the raindrops, the whirling trees,

This stretch between a hotel and a movie theater,

And the movie Iím already forgetting.

And I will forget this moment.

 

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