the wayfarer

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Jon Geihsler

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Long ago this boy I knew, he looked a lot like me
He got his heart bruised and wore it all on his sleeve
As years went by I heard his name carried in on the breeze
The tales so tall they fell and fell like the leaves

They said he worked for circus 'till he got stung by her kiss
No one really knew
But everybody swore he was their best friend through and through
He had a roommate in Boston or a cellmate in Austin
Now I can't recall
Just stories or legend or maybe he really did it all

He carried his things in this second-hand suitcase nobody'd miss
And all the while his crooked smile hid his sins
Every day he'd confess that he'd probably wind up in hell for this
Lock the picture away in his suit coat fray with a kiss
With a kiss

I heard he was employed at river rouge Detroit working on Henry's line
But even the raucous machines couldn't quiet his mind
He stole a fortune in lead pipe, left in the dead of night on a freighter's south trek
He never even bothered to collect his last paycheck

He took a wife in Tennessee
They bought a house and some land
And for a while he felt like an honest man
But as the summer'd start to swell his doubts would as well
And he'd feel that itch
He never said goodbye, she found his wedding ring in a ditch

He carried his dreams in this second-hand suitcase nobody'd miss
And all the while his crooked smile hid his sins
Every day he'd confess that he'd probably wind up in hell for this
Lock the picture away in his suit coat fray with a kiss
With a kiss

Every life a token
Collecting scars or souvenirs?
The difference was harder to tell
With the weight of all the years
He buried them 'neath the oak tree
And then he burned that forest down
Even there at the end
He'd rather be lost than found

Late the next day when the fire was contained
They searched high and searched low
No sign of him just ash a few glowing coals
The dawn brought such a brilliant red
They thought he must be dead
They gathered around. One and all lowered their heads
That's when they saw it there:
A tattered picture of him and a girl so fair
It's edges torn and scorched
Nearly to black
In his messy and awkward hand
He scribbled three words
In one final act
'She was home'
His last words written on the back
Written in ash

Twenty years before he died
On a now abandoned, rust-filled ferris wheel ride
Two lovers embraced
And posed for the camera's eye

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