The Fools and the Wise Man #12

I walk with the banjo player
down to the river
where the alto mourns his lost love
to the sound of a lonely cello
it doesn’t feel right to dance

a guru in the hedge
lights a cigar
the smoke makes us cough
it is cold, our breath frozen
transparent wispy shadows

we stamp our feet
blow into our cupped hands
wrap ourselves tighter
in our Indian blankets
and keep searching for the sun

the guru turns away
to the smells of the bar
warm whiskey waiting
he knows the sun is lost
he saw it fall into the water