a sketch of Robert John

he’s got long blond hair

(the kind of yellowness that comes from the sun)

wears all black sometimes

looking like a cross between night and day


hardly ever speaks

preferring to listen and watch

writes beautiful letters to people he barely knows


he looks like no one’s brother

but in the backroads of his past

there was a mother and a father and a home

(smiles like he once belonged somewhere)


he drives a 1951 green chevy to the places

where he hides

and there is no one here

who understands any part of him

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