Walking to the bus station, I have a guitar case
in my hand. I could be an aging rocker afraid
to leave the road, on his way to another small city gig.
In fact I’m carrying my daughter’s guitar.
I may be a frequent flier, but she’s gotta be
Platinum Plus on Greyhound by now.
Many times I have heard her called someone
who is finding her way, a free spirit, which is to say,
one who is windblown, of no certain address.
A couch surf in any odd apartment, sleeping
rough under sumac by the overpass, what does
she care? And my worry won’t keep her safe,
so let this be a prayer: When I hear what is only leaves
scuffing up the driveway, I’ll think it’s her.