He sang the meaning of the words
on the stage or into the kitchen where all
America was listening, he shaped each note like
homemade ravioli, fat and delicate.

He sang arrows shot from a quiver
moonbeams pouring out from that signature smile,
and on occasion, flower buds in spring, blooming
the moment harmony spread its wings at the end of the phrase.

He sang from the far corners of the world of romance
and into the teeth of the storm, face to face with Fortune,
the girl, the lady that pulled him on, away from where he
began, where he hoped to remain. In the end, the train

pulled into the station, and the rhythm started to slow
so that when it was time for him to step off,
swinging his suitcase, hat in hand, ready to
take on the world, a hundred songs in his heart

it seemed effortless.

© Bob Stanley