Met an older man today.

Gray in his beard, dark wavy hair.

Never fixed or removed his cocked 

sunglasses.

The rocking motion

of our conversation was familiar

to a worn welcome mat.

Old emotions started peaking 

their beautiful buds 

from behind the weeds.

Old weeds, browns and greens, not my favorite types... though some were chosen.

As my eyes flicked between chapters,

I could re-live

{re-imagine with no use

of actual imagination}

my history.

We talked of music, we talked of technique, we talked of trades and purchases—an old Supro head.  

We talked of sunflower seeds on pizza and the siding of an old house that yearns for a fresh new coat.

The garage became an external storage unit for hope and hope-nots.

As the crescendo past, the lights still low allowing the audience one last peak at excellence, he pulled me close, wrapped a long-time-coming around me and said, “I love you... you know that right?  I love you.”

As we stood there, 

the sound of the central fountain

became an ocean wave—both sound and ride.

Something that takes 14 years

to destroy can take 9 words to build.

It hasn’t left my mind.

This moment.

I can still taste the saltiness 

and still smell the paint.

I can still hear the shake of the house

from the aching power of 2 Twin-Reverbs, the call, the shout, the chorus of his heart.

I can still see his dark goatee and his teaching stance.  

Eric Clapton.

Led Zeppelin.

The Blues.

It was just a few years, but this older man is still my youth.