Journey To New York

Standing in front Of the place He felt A faint breeze Skimming The streets Ankle high Swirling dust Reaching up Stinging his face Reminding him This was not Wind blown sand from The ocean. He came from a Place like that "...seashells by the seashore..." Tired He packed up Headed out Straight down the highway Took the high span view Over the George Washington Bridge And saw the misty outline Of Manhattan ’s Gray turrets Piercing the clouds Brightly colored banners Everywhere And soldiers in armor Beckoning Him To come with His dreams. Stepping back He looked Up and down The streets Nothing moving Nothing to see The dream Within Still Burned White Self taught He spent Long nights Searching For the right words And solitary days Practicing Until his fingers cramped And bled. At the clubs He met some ladies Had some fans When agents stopped Calling He stayed When the others Slipped away Leaving behind Empty backpacks And borrowed shoes. The place fills up Lights dim A stray cough Punctuates the silence Alone on stage He eases into the mike His voice carries the song The audience leans To hear Words meant only for them He connects With them And they with him The Devil is in the room The club is transformed After all those years His chance is now.