Angel White

This was not a dream.
But it seemed like one.
Cold Monday.
A ride to remember.
Cruising with Martin on our minds.
The 60s.
Tragic age of American assassinations.
Not peace and love.
No flower power.
More Altamont, less Woodstock.

Fast fender contraption.
Too late for that.
Pant leg caught up in the chain.
Yellow box house near Chestnut Square.
Broke beyond repair.
A bicycle birthday miracle.
Ditch the reflectors for sure.

Raise a glass at The Celt.
With the chips & fish.
Old Kam's, old Buffalo Joe's.
T'was in another lifetime.
One of toil and blood.
When blackness was a virtue.
And the road was full of mud.

Rio knows who's to blame.
On this dog friendly patio.
Lawyers will even rob the blind.

And then Angel White walked up.
With bad religion and a burning cigarette.
Paisley trousers and pointy cowboy boots.
Jewel studded, orange shaded shades.
Guitar around his neck.
Ready to sing his own songs.
About going and love and being saved.
Dollar bills were everywhere.

The wind howled.
Like it does in January.