on the road

they come to you in all their beauty,  empty handed as any refugee or

or the haggard  beggar almost braving the winter.  they wear bells and bracelets  and sing like

no one else, wailing and laughing their tales with their faux gypsy eyes, you a gulley

of warmth who smells of  cinnamon,  of  lilies of the valley in springtime or some other respite.

although you too have slept in wind-weathered tents, on beaten earth floors, have

crossed borders with the wrong papers or coins,  ridden your silky haltered pony

through a chain of islands where none have ever seen such a girl, so milky-legged

and fearless, it doesn´t quite tally the same. how to look at these sweet boys, right in the belly of the eye, take them, believing for a moment what they have seen or said.  & then move on.