Poem for John

Where are you going?

The sidewalks of Saint Paul miss your tread,
worn and torn in grocery stores,
slackjawed in awe,
you will never know a silence of thought.
Caffeine keeps you frantically awake,
howling elbows,
civil-war ribcage and
San Francisco smile.

Where are you going?
Screaming turbulent you can’t decide,
Unsettled quivering legs
Deny definition, then
shrill loneliness comes creeping home
to play the lute below your eyes.

How will you know when you get there?
The ages call you home,
Unkempt in cardboard,
Sticky post-scripts:
You are nothing but your words,
And we are nothing but the songs you sing.