Travelin Man

He leaves possessions in all the homes of the women he's had. (all those beautiful, captivating women.) There's worn-down books handed over at dusk, and painted stones and postcards...and framed pictures face-down in boxes. -
Think maybe, he thinks those things will lead him home when he's done.
When he finally picks a home.
Cause he's a ramblin', travelin' man...
Speaks softly, grasps gently, walks quickly, smiles downward...and sleeps alone even when he's not.

And when I had him - when I had him he carried a music box in his pocket and lingered with the dust of the road on his boots and tires.
He listened to jazz, arrived early, and left for the day at first chance. Holes in his suits and my scarf round his neck.

That was a few characters (we've played) ago.

So just once a year - I unlock the back of an antique box and take out a postcard - trying to remember all those tiny loving moments of the everyday of him -
But it's somewhere in that distant, flat scope of land out there.
It's just the echo that I can brush clean, barely. Once in awhile, with a smile.