postcards

green eyed boy on a farm town street, got a ride to the coast, south by southeast, 'don't worry about me no more', met a girl in spain, so the postcards said, there's a little white house, a king size bed, but he walked away like every time before, and the loneliness was sneaking up behind him, he's gone and run somewhere he knows'll never find him, on african plains like he always said he would, in foreign words he understood, he signed his name 'you don't know what you're missing', but on the dusty road with hands cracked dry, in the tall grass where the dogs are crying, i sometimes wonder if he listens to the loneliness, and all he heard the preacher say, was 'live your life before it slips away', so the postcards come to this old town, and there's less to read and more to imagine now, but kids he grew up with and folks he loves, we hold him, close enough i hope, and i hope there's someone with him, and that the wind out where he's walking blows behind him, he's gone and run somewhere he knows'll never find him, and the wind blows in, the door gets shut, a thousand times, if i've told them once. they don't remember, but he smiles at me, he says hello, there are people turned everywhere we go, so how can i remember when it comes and it goes, the wind blows in this empty room, it comes too late and then it goes too soon,