A lonely man sits on the step
Of an abandoned warehouse
Begging for company
That he might find in a
Bottle or a drag of a
Half finished Marlboro

He asks me for a light,
And I dig deep into
my pockets to retrieve
one single match
and a tune

I pass the man the contents of my pockets

He lights his smoke
While the tune plays itself
on his beaten guitar.
He asks me where I'm from,
and I say, "Toronto."

He smiles and thinks of home
repeating the chords to
a song i once loved

I ask if he mind if I sing along
And he smiles again.

We sing about wheat kings and pretty things,
I remind him of a girl he once knew.

Maybe tonite he won't
Go home to a bottle and a Marlboro

He'll go home to a tune
sprung from a pretty face
and a memory of what was
and what could be
Again.

© froG_pRinceSs 1999

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