Smudged soul, damaged dreamer,
you labor through your allotted days
wearing attitude with a wan smile.
From hundreds of miles away I see you
driving your truck full of blood
across the windswept northern plains
no doubt with Pink Floyd playing
as you deliver your scheduled units.
The last time I saw you
I was more than a little drunk,
I stumbled back to my hotel room
and you drove wearily away
for what I didn’t suspect
would be so many years.
I’m A positive, old friend, and so afraid
I won’t immediately recognize your face.
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