Last Dreams of the Lost

[couchgrouch]

Last Dreams of the LostPete slumped down at the bus stop, and thumbed through his changeshut his eyes and saw his journey, from the coast to the rangethere was a Hell's Angels' Harley, with wind as a kickstandhis best friend's old Stetson, floating on bayou quicksanddust-devils raindancing, on a tarpaper two-lanebillboards instead of bison, dotting purple plainsin the last dreams of the lostthings he'd left behindthe pretty young whore in Baton Rougewith silky camisoles and satin shoeshe often stole to buy her sweet timecos to miss her kiss would be a crimein the last dreams of the lostev'ry bus runs dust to dust, for both the humble and proudso happiness is only, the view along the routehe'd heard Satchmo's blue horn, still blowing foreverin breezes over high reeds, up and down old man riverhe saw quicksilver moonlight, on a quiet winter's eveshine upon a poor man's stone, while heaven rang in the sheavesin the last dreams of the lostthe only things he'd keptthe last night he shadowed her doorthe girl he loved didn't charge like beforeshe returned his cash as he sleptit was something she couldn't acceptin the last dreams of the lostwell, the driver honked his horn, when he saw Pete fast asleeponly someone with nowhere to be, could rest that deepthe wings of his wanderlust, had romanced the four wild windsso newspapers swirling around him, showed he died circled by friendssome headstones like a willow, but Pete loved the open starsso at night he could read, eternity's memoirsin the last dreams of the lostpainted with fate's fickle brushthere's an old whore from Baton Rougewalking lonely rows in worn out shoeshe'd once picked pockets for her touchmaybe roses she picked will mean as muchin the last dreams of the lost(c)2006 Robert George