she's a vagabon via small town, america.
a little place, a place he couldn't pin point on a map or a globe.
she wore her clothes loose across her loose stance
in long legs and arms and fingers and curled up toes in long socks.
he fancied her, heard her voice on the radio,
her words penetrating his mood.
licking his lips he learned the words.
singing along poorly in the car on the way to some old friend's house.
and there she was, this singing vagabon.
and so he said here, here, little american girl, here.
danced her to the end of the night and tied her up
in his arms. her hair a beautiful, tangled mess.
gone the next day to a festival up north.
she left him bare among friends and sheets.
and a little love note with her number on it,
written in crayon on the tenner in his wallet.
it took him 6 hours to find it,
but the coffee tasted sweeter after 5 hours of greif and 1 of missery.
here, here, he called her up and made her promise to see him again.
here, here, she said to him, here we go.