There’s a big moon up there.

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Over these days now.

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You’ve got my Buddy Guy shirt on.

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My jean jacket.

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On the road, barefoot and shades, the music on the radio bouncing off broken neon.

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There’ll be money falling from the pages of these books one day, with words there to see, and is it art? Or, art then? Who knows? Godot, you and me, that's who.

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And in these days now, this imperfect bliss of us, days that are just like bags of cocaine falling in the wind; a broken crow’s nest, barefoot and shades, the music on the radio bouncing off graffiti walls.

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And will it be enough, yet? All these words still falling on these pages still.

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And in the coming of days, one day, another beautiful stormy day tomorrow, we’ll listen to the wind at night, in the woods, by a lake, under that one big moon.

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And I’ll say,

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Baby, it feels like rain.